LIBRARY     OF 

HENRY  £ 

CLAFLIN 

ABINGTON, 

MASS. 

THINGS  SEEN 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MEN,  CITIES,  AND  BOOKS 


G.  W.  STEEVENS 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 
G.  S.  STREET 


WITH  A  MEMOIR  BY 
W.  E.  HENLEY 


INDIANAPOLIS,   U.  S.  A. 

THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1900,  in  the  United  States  of  America 
THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  COMPANY 


G.    W.    S. 

lOTH  DECEMBER  1869;   15TH  JANUARY  1900 

We  cheered  you  forth — brilliant  and  kind  and  brave. 
Under  your  country's  triumphing  flag  you  fell. 
It  floats,  true  heart,  over  no  dearer  grave. 
Brave  and  brilliant  and  kind,  hail  and  farewell  ! 

W.  E.  H. 


CONTENTS 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR 


The  New  Humanitarianism 

From  the  New  Gibbon 

What  Happened  in  Tiiessaly 

The  Monotype 

Mr.  Balfour's  Philosophy 

' '  Little  Eyolf  ' ' 

Zola 

The  New  Tennyson 

Words  for  Music 

The  Futile  Don 

At  Twenty-Four 

A  Fable  of  Journalists 

The  Dreyfus  Case — 

I.  Scenes  and  Actors  in  the  Trial 
II.  The  Effect  on  France 


contents 

The  Jubilee — 

I.  London's  New  Game 
II.  Queen  and  Empire 
III.   "  To  View  the  Illuminations' 
I  V.  The  Great  Review 
V.  The  Great  Review — continued 
The  Feast  of  St.  Wagner — I,  II,  III 
In  Search  of  a  Famine — I,  II,  III,  IV 
"  During  Her  Majesty's  Pleasure  " — I,  II 
In  the  Country  of  The  Storm 
The  Derby — I,  II 
The  Cesarewitch 
Two  Hospitals — 

I.  Out-Patients'  Day 
II.  In  the  Theatre 

Appendix 


MEMOIR. 

Through  war  and  pestilence,  red  siege  and  fire, 
Silent  and  self-contained  he  drew  his  breath; 
Brave,  not  for  show  of  courage — his  desire 
Truth,  as  he  saw  it,  even  to  the  death. 

— Rudyard  Kipling. 

The  great  necessity  imposed  upon  our  England  by 
the  poHcy  of  the  Afrikanders  inside  and  out  of  Cape 
Colony  has  cost  us  many  precious  lives.  I  speak  for 
my  own  set,  and  with  no  better  outlook  than  the  rest 
over  the  many  hundreds  of  brave  and  brilliant  and 
beautiful  creatures  who,  at  the  especial  instance  of 
the  mad  and  criminal  old  man  at  Pretoria,  have 
chosen  rather  to  surrender  this  good  earth,  and  all 
that  she  gifts  her  children  withal,  than  to  sufifer  that 
an  insolent  and  monstrous  wrong  were  done  upon 
that  piece  of  her  to  whose  inheritance,  in  all  its 
felicity  of  pride  and  freedom,  they  were  born.  But 
I  do  not  think  that  I  speak  excessively  when  I  say 
that,  when  George  Steevens  died  at  Ladysmith,  of 
enteric  fever  (which  is,  being  translated,  filth  and 
low  living),  there  was  lost  in  him  as  fine  a  spirit, 
as  rare  and  as  completely  trained  a  brain,  and  as 
brave  a  heart,  as  we  had  to  show.  I  write  after 
Kimberley,  Paardeberg,  Pieter's  Hill,  Bloemfontein, 
Kroonstadt,  with  INIafeking  rewarded  for  her  bril- 


Viii  MEMOIR 

liant  and  heroic  feat  of  arms,  with  what  was  the 
Orange  Free  State  British  territory,  and  with  Lord 
Roberts  knocking  dreadfully  at  the  heart  of  the 
Transvaal  Republic;  and  I  cannot  choose  but  reflect 
upon  the  fact  that  these  victorious  feats  all  come  to 
me  the  less  triumphiiigly  for  that  his  part  in  them 
is  not.  He  had  many  friends,  so  that  in  this  I  am 
by  no  means  singular;  and  our  consolation  is  that 
he  was  so  good  an  Englishman  that,  were  it  now 
possible,  he  would  be  the  first  to  rebuke  us  for  our 
cowardice. 


I  have  called  this  note  a  "Memoir";  but,  in  plain 
English,  no  memoir  of  him  is  possible.  The  story  of 
his  life  consists  in  his  school  successes  and  in  his 
books;  and,  apart  from  these,  there  is  little  or  noth- 
ing to  record.  Does  it,  for  instance,  advance  our 
knowledge  of  him  so  very  much  to  record  that  he 
came  of  good,  sound,  middle-class  stock,  was  born 
in  a  London  suburb,^  and  could  read  with  a  good 
appreciation  of  facts,  at  three  to  four  years  old?  It 
has  all  to  be  said,  I  suppose;  yet  it  isn't  very  inter- 
esting— surely?  I  gather,  however,  that,  for  all  his 
precocity,  he  was  that  best  of  good  things — a  true 
child:  which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  ended  as 
he  began,  with  "that  child's  heart  within  the  man's" 

'  His  speech  bewrayed  him  till  the  end.  It  may  be  that 
"II  n'est  bon  bee  que  de  Paris"  is  true  of  Chaucer's  town 
as  it  was  of  Villon's.  If  it  be,  then  George  Steevens's 
accent  was  the  best  in  England. 


MEMOIR  IX 

an  unending  refreshment  to  him,  and  an  unfailing 
joy  to  all  the  rightly  constituted  children  whom  he 
met.^  In  the  beginning  he  ruled  the  roast;  for  one 
of  his  joys  was  an  atlas,  and  when  anybody  got  to 
anywhere  in  the  illustrated  papers,  then  he  and  his 
brothers  and  sisters  also  had  to  get  there — in  a 
packing-case  for  a  ship,  and  with  lots  of  information 
from  the  skipper  as  to  the  habits  and  customs  of  the 
natives,  the  longitude  and  latitude  of  the  port  of 
destination,  the  mineral,  vegetable,  and  zoological 
features  of  the  region,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Pres- 
ently he  went  to  school,  and  in  no  great  while  he 
developed  into  a  prize  boy,  and  so  into  a  prize  stu- 
dent— an  exhibitioner — a  prodigy  (even) — a  don  of 
as  few  years  as  a  don  may  have  and  be  real. 

But  he  never  lost  (so  I  am  told)  his  interest  in 
"larks,"  whether  informative  or  not.  And  his  sim- 
plicity, his  soundness  of  heart,  his  integrity  of  mind 
remained  until  the  end  of  things  unaltered  and  un- 
alterable. So  they  tell  me  who  knew  him  best  in 
the  early  days.  So  they  tell  me  who  knew  him 
afterwards,  when  he  was  no  longer  a  kind  of  cham- 
pion pot-hunter,  but  a  man  cut  loose  from  his  moor- 
ings and  sent  adrift  on  the  sea  of  life  and  time  and 
experience,  there  to  play  his  game  and  approve 

^  In  the  early  days  of  our  acquaintance  he  came  to 
lunch  with  us.  He  was  silent  and  shy,  but  he  could  not 
escape  the  eye  of  the  serenest  and  sincerest  thing  that  ever 
lived;  and  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  she  proposed  to 
him,  and  he  was  finally  taken  into  her  exquisite  and  beau- 
tiful little  life. 


X  MEMOIR 

himself.  So  I  found  him,  and,  as  I  have  said,  so 
he  was  found  by  a  better — an  infinitely  better — 
judge  than  I.  The  truth  is,  I  take  it,  that  in  George 
Steevens  the  character  was  even  greater  than  the  in- 
telligence. He  might  have  been  the  most  brilliant 
and  the  most  wonderful  portent  ever  turned  out  of 
the  Academies,  and  yet  have  been  a  "bounder" 
(there  is  no  other  word,  so  I  must  use  the  only  word 
there  is),  or  a  pedant,  or  a  pedant  and  a  "bounder" 
both.  But  honesty,  a  radiant  sincerity,  straightness 
of  mind  and  temper  and  tongue — these  were 
George  Steevens.  That  he  had  brains  and  accom- 
plishment is  not  much  to  the  point.  The  point  is 
that  he  had  character:  a  nature  sweet  yet  strong, 
the  finer  instincts  finely  touched,  so  that  he  was  be- 
loved of  children  in  his  life,  and  in  his  death  may 
neither  be  forgotten  nor  replaced  among  his  friends. 

11. 

In  the  beginning  he  went  to  a  private  teacher's, 
but  at  thirteen  (1882)  he  won  his  way  into  the  City 
of  London  School,  and  there  he  proceeded  to  dis- 
tinguish himself  as  none  had  done  before  him. 
Prize  after  prize  he  took,  medal  after  medal,^  till  in 

^  Four  silver  medals,  and  a  (special)  gold  one.  Here, 
from  the  School  Magazine,  is  a  list  of  his  honours:  "Leav- 
ing out  of  account  numerous  prizes  and  medals,  his  school 
and  academic  distinctions  were  as  follows:  Sassoon  En- 
trance Scholarship,  1882;  Carpenter  Scholarship,  1885; 
Captain  of  the  School,  1887;  Classical  Scholarship  at  Bal- 
liol  College,  Oxford,   1887;  Sassoon  Sanskrit  Exhibition, 


MEMOIR  XI 

1887,  being  captain  of  the  school,  he  took  the  Class- 
ical Scholarship  at  Balliol,  and,  having  done  so, 
proceeded  to  distinguish  himself  yet  more,  till  he 
came  to  be  known  as  "the  Balliol  prodigy."  Not 
being  a  'Varsity  man  (as  they  say),  I  cannot  appre- 
ciate his  triumphs  as,  being  the  writer  of  this  Mem- 
oir, I  ought,  no  doubt,  to  do.  But  the  list  of  them 
is  striking;  and  I  have  marvelled  more  than  once, 
and  been  not  alone  in  my  marvelling,  over  the 
quality  of  his  intelligence,  which  survived  them  all, 
and,  more  than  that,  came  to  the  world's  work  per- 
fectly accomplished,  yet  vigorous,  apprehensive, 
athletic  even,  as  could  be.^  He  might,  I  always 
felt,  have  won  his  way  from  pot  to  pot,  from  prize 

City  of  London  School,  1888;  Abbott  Scholarship,  City 
of  London  School,  1888;  Proxime  accessit  for  Hertford 
University  Scholarship  (Oxford),  1888;  Honourably  men- 
tioned for  Ireland  Scholarship  (Oxford),  1888;  First  in 
honours  at  Matriculation  Examination  (London  Univer- 
sity), 1889;  First  Class  in  Classical  Moderations  (Oxford), 
1890;  Exhibition  in  Classics  in  Intermediate  Examination 
(London  University),  1889;  Scholarship  in  Classics  at  B. 
A.  Examination  (London  University),  1890;  First  Class 
in  Final  Classical  School  (Oxford),  1892;  Fellow  of  Pem- 
broke College,  Oxford,  1893." 

^  "The  mere  quantity  of  his  knowledge  was  astonishing; 
his  command  over  it  was  still  more  so.  He  had  a  Napole- 
onic faculty  for  instantaneous  and  complete  concentration 
of  his  intellectual  forces." — B.  A.  Abrahams,  in  the  'City 
of  London  School  Magazine,'  March,  1900.  That  is  most 
true.  He  was  so  complete  master  of  his  equipment  and 
his  means  alike,  that,  as  another  school  friend  has  re- 
corded, he  wrote  his  'Monologues'  with  a  running  pen, 
and  scarce  ever  a  reference  to  the  authorities  shelved  at 
his  back. 


xii  MEMOIR 

to  prize,  and  then,  his  mind  exhausted  with  the 
work  of  assimilation,  have  quietly  declined  upon  a 
curacy,  or  a  grammar-school  mastership,  or  a 
tutor's  place  in  his  college:  capable  of  living  inter- 
est in  nothing  excepting  drinks  and  the  minor 
niceties,  the  riddles  and  cruces,  of  classical  scholar- 
ship. But  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  On  the 
contrary,  he  came  out  into  the  world,  and,  for  aught 
one  knew,  he  was  not  lettered  at  all,  but  only  a 
type  of  Young  Oxford :  a  youth  with  a  pince-nez 
and  a  soft  hat  and  a  turn  for  Ibsen  and  Zola  and 
all  manner  of  extremes.  I  read  of  him  that  he  was 
a  capital  speaker,  with  a  vein  of  paradox  and  a  bot- 
toming of  humour  which  kept  him  ever  within 
the  pale  of  reasonable  unreasonableness;  and  I 
can  very  well  believe  it.  Humour  he  had,  and  wit, 
and  that  excellently  trained  intelligence  of  his  was 
excellently  active  and  sane:  only,  being  above  all 
things  wise,  he  did  not,  young  as  he  was,  essentially 
and  despite  his  tremendous  tutoring — he  did  not 
choose  to  begin  his  real  life  in  too  flagrant  a  humour 
of  offence.  I  think  he  must  needs  have  been  a 
little  tired,  and  indefatigable  athlete  as  he'd  shown 
himself,  was  glad  of  a  rest,  and  content  to  lie  by 
and  take  stock  of  things.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  left 
Oxford  for  Cambridge,  and  at  Cambridge  he  wrote 
and  edited  the  'Cambridge  Observer:'  a  journal 
very  plainly  modelled  (but  with  improvements!)  on 
an  older  'Observer,'  in  which  latter  he  was  after- 
wards to  print  his  one  serious  contribution  to 
English  letters.     I  have  read  his  'Cambridge  Ob- 


MEMOIR  xui 

server'  work,  and  it  is  enough  that  none  of  it  has 
seemed  worth  reprinting  in  this  volume  either  to 
my  colleague,  Mr,  Street,  or  to  myself.  It  showed, 
however,  that  there  was  somebody  with  a  pen ;  and 
a  result  of  it  was  that,  Mr.  Oscar  Browning  aiding, 
George  Steevens  joined  the  stafif  of  the  Tall  Mall 
Gazette,'  and  now  came  out  into  the  world  indeed. 

III. 

He  did  so  in  a  happy  time.  He  was  well  and  thrice 
well  grounded  in  books;  as  ever,  the  golden  chance 
was  his,  and  he  was  to  be  well  and  thrice  well 
grounded  in  affairs  of  men.  A  little  before,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  said  about  the  Tall  Mall  Gazette' 
except  that  'it  had  seen  better  days.  A  good  thing 
in  the  beginning,  it  had  gone  on  to  be  the  most 
notorious  journal  in  the  world,  and  then,  lighting 
upon  evil  and  sober  days,  had  fallen  as  low  as  a 
journal  can,  and  live.  Then,  by  a  stroke  of  fortune 
as  sudden  and  as  dramatic,  I  think,  as  anything  in 
the  history  of  journalism,  its  estate  was  changed. 
It  became  the  property  of  an  American  gentleman, 
Mr.  William  Waldorf  Astor,  who  showed  at  once 
that  he  had  wit  and  enterprise  and  savoir-faire,  as 
well  as  money,  by  placing  its  control  in  the  hands 
of  a  man  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of  journal- 
ism, but  was,  as  was  abundantly  shown  in  the  se- 
quel, the  most  brilliant  and  daring  Editor  of  his 
time.  He  was  young,  had  read  hard,  had  travelled 
far;    knew  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men;    was 


XIV  MEMOIR 

versed  in  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  things;  had  a 
great  sense  of  politics :  with  prestance,  gaiety,  po- 
sition, a  beautiful  temperament.  With  never  a 
touch  of  Fleet  Street  in  his  make,  he  was  better 
than  all  Fleet  Street  put  together  at  Fleet  Street's 
own  particular  game;  and  to  him,  as  to  David  in 
the  Cave  of  AduUam,  there  flocked  the  younger  and 
more  daring  spirits  of  whose  aid  he  stood  in  need. 
One  was  George  Warrington  Steevens,  and  he 
came  out  of  the  experience  a  made  man.  They 
were  all  young  men  in  the  office  of  the  'Pall  Mall 
Gazette.'  Even  the  Assistant  Editor,  albeit  the  old- 
est in  years,  had  in  him  the  stufif  of  unending  youth, 
and  despite  his  great  range  of  knowledge,  his  fine 
sense  of  political  conduct,  his  serene,  immitigable 
Toryism,  had  gaiety  of  heart  enough,  and  wit  and 
talk,  and  experience  of  the  comedy  of  life  and  time 
and  affairs  enough,  to  be  not  much  the  elder  of  the 
youngest.  Then  the  'National  Observer,'  a  journal 
which,  as  I've  said  elsewhere,  is  still  remembered 
with  affection  and  regret  "by  the  chosen  few  who 
wrote  for  it  and  the  chosen  fewer  who  read  it" — 
the  'National  Observer,'  I  say,  was  still  afoot,  and 
though  conscious  of  its  moribundity — of  the  fact 
that  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death — was  keep- 
ing the  bravest  of  fronts;  and  its  young  men  were 
burning  for  new  worlds  to  conquer.  These  new 
worlds,  or  an  approach  to  them,  they  found  in  the 
'Pall  Mall  Gazette,'  as  that  ancient  and  battered 
print  was  refashioned  and  refitted,  te  Tciicro  dnce: 
with  Mr.  Gust  at  the  helm,  and  Mr.  W.  W.  Astor, 


MEMOIR  xv 

in  the  guise  of  a  favouring  gale,  at  the  prow. 
George  Steevens  came  in  with  the  rest.  He  was 
in  the  soft-hat-and-scarlet-tie  stage  of  youthful 
manhood:  a  rather  shy,  a  rather  sulky  or  (so  it 
seemed),  a  rather  gloomy  and  socialistic  junior  don. 
So  he  appeared  to  me  when  at  last  I  was  privileged 
to  make  his  acquaintance;  so,  I  believe,  he  ap- 
peared to  all  the  mariners  in  the  new  ship.  But 
appearances  were  not  long  against  him.  I  think  he 
interested  everbody  from  the  first,  and  when  he  did 
so  much  as  that,  the  sequel  was  inevitable.  You 
started  with  a  kindness  for  him,  and  you  liked  him, 
as  you  went  on  knowing  him,  better  and  better, 
more  and  more.  And,  believe  me,  it  was  a  change 
and  a  chance  for  him.  Hitherto  he  had  been  pri- 
mus inter  pares — a  leader  among  boys.  In  the 
office  of  the  'Pall  Mall  Gazette'  everybody,  as  I've 
said,  was  young;  but  he  was  the  youngest  of  all, 
even  as  he  was  the  only  one  who  had  not  some  salt 
of  active  Hfe.  Out  of  a  past  of  books  and  prizes 
and  debating  societies  and  sentimental  socialism,  he 
came  into  an  atmosphere  of  wit,  and  scholarship, 
and  laughter,  and  sound  Toryism,  and  the  practice 
— the  right  practice — of  affairs.^     As  I  said,  he  was 

^  If  he  came  to  his  work  a  philosophical  Radical  (what- 
ever that  may  mean),  he  was  very  soon  as  good  an  Eng- 
lishman as  the  best  of  his  new-found  yet  unalterable 
friends.  I  have  read  somewhere  that,  in  after  years,  he  did 
but  pretend  to  approve  the  reconquest  of  the  Sudan,  the 
reply  to  Mr.  Kruger's  declaration  of  war:  that  what  he 
wrote  about  these  matters  was  written  to  please  the  public, 
and  in  no  sort  represented  his  own  convictions.  As  one 
who  knew  him  very  intimately,  I  can  but  say  that  I'll  not 


XVI  MEMOIR 

sulky  and  shy — or  rather  he  was  shy  to  the  point  of 
seeming  sulky.  But  he  soon  endeared  himself  to 
every  man  in  the  place;  at  last  his  gift  of  humour 
got  an  irritant  and  an  outlet  both;  at  last  his  pre- 
tensions to  ascendency,  superiority,  impeccability 
were  subjected  to  a  common  and  continuous  test, 
and  he  was  howled  at  if  he  did  ill,  as  he  was  ap- 
plauded if  he  did  well.  As  his  Editor,  who  loved 
and  understood  him,  gave  him  all  manner  of  oppor- 
tunities, and  turned  him,  all  in  the  day's  w^ork,  now 
on  to  the  writing  of  flippant  paragraphs,  now  on  to 
the  conduct  of  a  matter  in  dispute  w^hich  might  have 
embroiled  tw^o  kingdoms,  but  in  which  his  sound 
yet  brilliant  handling  of  maps  and  texts  and  facts 
was  sure  to  keep  the  journal  "right  side  up,"  and 
"with  a  lot  to  spare,"!  he  came  in  for  a  great 
deal  of  both  execration  and  applause.  It  was,  as 
I  believe,  the  making  of  him — it  and,  as  I  believe, 
the  'National  Observer,'  to  which  at  this  time  he 
sent,  from  week  to  week,  reviews  which  are  models 
of  their  kind:  reviews  or  scholarly  or  savage  or 
merely  blighting;  and  with  these,  and  certain  lead- 
ers and  "middles"  on  matters  of  the  moment,  or  on 
things  in  general,  the  several  numbers  of  what  must 

believe  it.  He  was  too  good  an  Englishman  and  too  poor 
a  hypocrite.  That,  despite  his  Toryism,  he  remained  a 
philosophical  Radical  is  like  enough.  I  have  yet  to  learn, 
in  fact,  that  there  is  any  very  considerable  difference  be- 
tween the  several  points  of  view. 

*  In  those  days  the  'Pall  Mall  Gazette'  was  easily,  not  to 
say  loosely,  written.  I  find  that  I  have  relapsed  upon  the 
manner  of  it.     So  I  keep  the  slang. 


MEMOIR  xvii 

in  the  end  be  recognised  as  his  sole  achievement  in 
pure  Hterature.  I  mean,  of  course,  those  wonder- 
ful 'Monologues,'-  in  which,  applying  his  reading 
and  intelligence  and  humanity  to  the  work  of  pic- 
turing and  expressing  the  historical  men  and 
women  of  a  bygone  time,  he  recreated  and  renewed 
for  us — brought  as  it  were  to  our  very  doorsteps — ■ 
figures  and  characters  so  diverse  and  remote  as 
Troilus  and  Xantippe,  Brutus  the  pedant  and  Corn- 
modus  the  madman,  Vespasian,  with  his  work-a- 
day  views  of  empire,  and  Nero,  Cicero,  Alcibiades : 
the  wonderful  'Augustus,'  with  its  luminous  and 
easy  mastery  of  Roiman  politics  at  a  time  when 
Roman  poHtics  were  at  their  cloudiest;  and  greatly 
daring,  succeded  in  suggesting  even  the  mighty 
Caius  Julius.  It  is  when  you  come  to  think  that 
these  re-creations,  these  interpretings,  these  admir- 
able and  daring  transfigurations  (so  to  speak)  of 
living  Greece  and  Rome  were  done  at  four-  or 
five-and-twenty,  between  spells  of  journalism,  that 
you  realise  the  great  capacity  George  Steevens  had, 
and  the  sort  of  man  of  letters  he  might  and  should 
have  been.     It  seemed  other  to  the   Gods.     But 

'  Monologues  of  the  Dead.  London:  Methuen.  1895. 
Note  that  the  method  is,  so  far  as  it  goes,  on  all  fours 
with  Shakespeare's.  Steevens  translates,  or  transliterates, 
his  Greeks  and  Romans  into  the  terms  of  the  life  he  knew, 
and  takes  his  lingo  from  the  'Sporting  Times'  if  need  be. 
What  else  does  Shakespeare  do  in  "Troilus,"  in  "Antony," 
in  "Coriolanus"?  His  Thersites  alone  sufifices  to  show 
how  very  well  his  pupil  had  learned  his  lesson,  and  how 
brilliantly  he  put  his  learning  out  to  use. 


xviii  MEMOIR 

knowing  not  their  minds,  men  may  lament,  as  I 
do,  that  they  who  gave  us  thus  much  refused  us 
more. 

IV. 

But  Scripture  saith,  An  ending!  This  pecuHar 
set  of  circumstances  was  too  good  to  last.  Of  the 
'National  Observer'  there  was  presently  left  (1894) 
not  much  else  than  the  aspect  and  the  name,  and 
not  long  afterwards  not  even  these;  and  in  the 
sequel  (1895)  the  'Pall  Mall  Gazette,'  by  the  opera- 
tion of  a  change  as  dramatic  and  as  sudden  as  that 
which  had  resulted  in  its  renascence,  changed 
Editors  and  stafifs  once  more,  and,  from  being  a 
power  in  the  land,  became  once  more  an  everyday 
evening  journal.  That  Steevens  did  not  instantly 
follow  his  friends  into  the  vacancy  of  an  enforced 
leisure  was  merely  due,  I  believe,  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  working  to  the  terms  of  an  engagement. 
These  fulfilled,  he  also  went  into  retirement  for  a 
while;  and,  having  married  at  the  end  of  1894,  was 
content  to  lie  low  and  be  happy.  At  the  same  time, 
by  way  of  keeping  himself  in  touch  with  affairs,  he 
proceeded  to  master  and  to  say  his  say  upon  the 
question  of  the  British  Navy,^  and  to  make  him- 
self welcome,  as  a  man  qualified  to  speak  with 
prestance  and  authority  on  many  things,  to  'Black- 
wood.' Then  (1896)  came  the  second  chance  of 
his  life  (I  except  his  marriage,  which  was  a  thing 

^  Naval  Policy.  By  G.  W.  Steevens.  London:  Methuen. 
1896. 


MEMOIR  XIX 

apart  from  the  ordinary  courses  of  human  Hfe,  and 
was  in  the  event  as  fortunate  as  in  the  beginning  it 
had  seemed  bewildering),  and  on  the  invitation  of 
Mr.  Alfred  Harmsworth,  a  man  of  large  and  splen- 
did inventions,  he  joined  the  staff  of  the  'Daily 
Mail:'  a  journal  in  whose  service  he  was  to  de- 
velop a  talent  of  a  strange  and  taking  brilliancy 
(its  existence  none  had  suspected  in  him),  which 
was  to  give  its  chief,  if  not  its  sole,  literary  inter- 
est, to  the  work  he  rejoiced  to  do  for  it.  He  had 
shown,  not  once  but  many  times,  that  he  could 
understand.  He  was  now  to  prove  to  admiration 
that  he  could  both  understand  and  see :  that,  given 
a  figure,  an  aspect,  an  incident,  even  a  great  and 
notable  passage  in  afifairs,  he  could  apply  that  ad- 
mirable brain  of  his  to  the  task  of  observing  and 
realising  what  he  saw,  on  lines  so  essential  and  so 
clean  that,  his  faculty  of  speech  thrown  in,  'twas 
easy  for  him — almost  too  easy — to  pass  on  the 
final  effect  of  his  vision.  This  is  putting  it  badly 
enough,  no  doubt;  and  I  do  not  know  thai  it  will 
make  matters  very  much  better  to  note  that,  at  the 
time  of  his  recording  Iiis  impressions  in  the  terms 
which  made  his  fame,  he  stood  alone  among  Eng- 
lish journalists.  To  be  sure,  the  capacity  he  showed 
was  not  now  for  the  first  time  shown  in  English 
journahsm.  Dickens  had  exampled  it,  and  that 
with  "an  immense  and  far-reaching  instinct  of  the 
Picturesque"  (I  quote  from  memory,  from  Mr. 
Henry  James);  so  had  Ruskin;  so  had  Meredith 
and  R.  L.  Stevenson;    so  had  Rudyard  Kipling. 


XX  MEMOIR 

I  do  not  think  that  Stecvens  was  deeply  read  in  any 
of  these  writers;^  and  that  I  do  not  think  so  is 
enough  to  show  that  I  hold  him  better  versed  in 
Greek  and  Latin  than  he  was  in  English.  All  the 
same,  he  was  cut  out  of  the  same  stuff  with  them: 
the  peculiar  capacity  for  vision  and  realisation, 
which  was  theirs,  was  his  also;  so  that  his  'Om- 
durman,'  done  amid  the  stinks  and  horrors  of  the 
field,  is  like  to  remain  a  classic — and  a  classic  un- 
surpassed— for  many  years  to  come.  He  had  a 
sort  of  visual  grip  of  things :  not  reckless,  nor  hap- 
hazard, nor  touched  with  sentiment;  but  alert,  ath- 
letic, of  an  absolute  and  unalterable  serenity.  I  am 
told  (and  I  can  very  well  believe)  that  a  certain 
commander-in-chief,  himself  the  hardest  and  stern- 
est of  communicants,  has,  on  his  own  confession, 
been  more  than  once  indebted  to  George's 
despatches  for  essentials  in  his  own.  And  I  believe 
that  my  friend  would  never  have  lost  this  "visual 
grip,"  but  would  have  gone  on  putting  it  to  what 
purpose  he  chose  in  very  different  work:    work 

*  He  can  scarce  have  seen  Mr.  Kipling's  journalistic 
achievement;  for  this  was  made  accessible  only  (1899) 
when  he  (Steevens)  was  shut  up  in  Ladysmith.  Mr.  Kip- 
ling, too,  is  only  one  of  several;  for  Dickens  was,  at  the 
writing  of  his  'Uncommercial  Traveller,'  the  most  brilliant 
and  commanding  literary  figure  of  his  time;  so  that  his 
'Uncommercials,'  though  they  were  done  for  a  weekly 
print  (his  own),  were  hardly  journalism.  A  nearer  par- 
allel is  Ruskin,  whose  'Modern  Painters'  (to  name  no 
more  of  his  works),  though  it  hath  ever  existed  as  a  book, 
is  obviously  mere  journalism;  stuff  done  to-day  and  for- 
got (of  the  writer)  to-morrow. 


MEMOIR  XXI 

other  in  scope,  in  practice,  in  design  and  in  effect, 
than  that  which  he  did  for  the  'Daily  Mail.'  On 
that  journal  he  had  four  years  of  active  literary 
life.  He  began  with  New  York  and  These  States 
in  general;  he  went  on  to  tell  how  the  Turk  made 
hay  of  the  Greek;  he  went  to  Eg>^pt,  and  saw  Sir 
Herbert  triumph  at  the  Atbara;  he  went  to  Egypt 
again,  and,  after  Omdurman,  passed  to  Khartum; 
he  steamed  east  with  Lord  Curzon,  and  spread  his 
big  intelligence  out  over  India  under  the  British 
Raj;  he  went  to  South  Africa,  and  there,  having 
told  us  what  he  thought  of  things  as  he  saw  them' 
in  the  desperate  leaguer  in  which  he  lost  himself — 
there,  I  say,  he  died.  I  need  not  pass  these  books^ 
in  review.  I  have,  I  think,  stated  their  dominant 
literary  quality.  The  presence  of  that  quality  made 
their  author  remarkable  even  to-day,  when  near 
everybody  writes  well,  and  some  few  write  with  dis- 
tinction. And  behind  it,  as,  having  known  the 
'Monologues'  of  old,  and  having  been  privileged  to 
read,  with  other  notes,  as  much  as  he  did  of  his  first 
essay  in  fiction,  I  can  asseverate,  without  fear  of 
repentance,  that  behind  it  all  there  was  a  fine  ro- 
mantic imagination:  even  as,  behind  that,  there 
was  a  capacity  for  high  politics,  which,  had  he  but 

^  (i)  The  Land  of  the  Dollar.  (Edinburgh:  Blackwood, 
i8g6.)  (2)  With  the  Conquering  Turk.  (Edinburgh: 
Blackwood,  1897.)  (3)  Egypt  in  1898.  (Edinburgh: 
Blackwood,  1898.)  (4)  With  Kitchener  to  Khartum. 
(Edinburgh:  Blackwood,  1898.)  (5)  In  India.  (Edin- 
burgh: Blackwood,  1899.)  (6)  From  Cape  Town  to 
Ladysmith,     (Edinburgh:  Blackwood,  1900.) 


xxii  MEMOIR 

come  out  of  Ladysmith,  could  not  but  have  taken 
him  far. 

V. 

The  years  of  work  and  wandering  that  are  repre- 
sented by  these  books  of  his — these  books,  so  vivid, 
so  instant,  so  actual — these  years,  I  say,  did  much 
for  him.  They  took  him  far  out  into  the  world; 
they  filled  his  brain  with  facts  and  impressions,  and 
greatened  the  capacities  of  his  vision  and  his  heart. 
He  did  nothing  in  them  but  it  increased  his  reputa- 
tion, and  enlarged  his  idea  in  the  public  fancy.  He 
wrote  for  a  round  million,  at  least,  of  readers,  and 
whatever  he  did  for  these  was  so  well  done  that, 
when  the  million  had  found  it  good,  he  could  appeal 
to  the  five  thousand,  or  the  five  hundred,  behind  the 
million — even  the  five  thousand,  or  the  five  hun- 
dred, who  know — and  count  on  their  plaudits  also. 
To  his  friends  it  was  a  great  joy  to  see  him  thus 
conspicuous,  and  to  know  that  all  the  while  he  was 
accomplishing  himself,  and  through  journalism 
making  ready  for  the  literature  that  in  the  long 
run  was  to  be  his  sole  employ.  And  his  friends 
were  fully  justified  of  their  content.  They  are  few 
indeed,  the  youngsters,  however  brilliant  and  how- 
ever promising — the  one  by  no  means  includes  the 
other — who  have  such  golden  chances  as  fell  ready 
to  his  hand.  To  begin  vdth,  that  triumphing  meta- 
morphosis, or  avatar,  of  the  'Pall  Mall  Gazette':  it 
was  surely  a  distinction,  as  well  as  a  right  education, 


MEMOIR  32m 

almost  from  the  first  to  live  its  full  and  vigorous 
and  daring  life,  not  as  a  thing  outside  but  as  an 
essential  in  its  everyday  economy.  And  then,  the 
happiest  of  happy  marriages  achieved — the  one 
vi^oman  found,  and  destiny  to  all  appearances  ful- 
filled— and  then,  I  say,  the  experimental,  novel,  ir- 
resistible 'Daily  Mail,'  Avith  its  liberal  and  far-seeing 
Editor,  and  that  gift  of  his  in  which  were  compre- 
hended America,  Greece,  Egypt,  the  Sudan,  India, 
with  Rennes  and  Bayreuth,  and  such  "pretty  tiny 
kickshaws"  thrown  in  by  the  way?  What  better 
fortune  could  one  have  wished  for  the  child  of  one's 
own  loins?  The  misfortune  was  that,  as  I  and  an- 
other held,  it  was  incomplete  so  long  as  it  did  not 
include  South  Africa.^  His  opportunities  had  come 
hot-foot,  each  one  hard  at  the  other's  heel.  The  old 
madman  at  Pretoria  brought  on  this  one  also  in,  as 
it  seemed,  the  nick  of  time,  and,  as  we  thought,  to 
the  notablest  of  purposes.  And  so  it  ended.  He 
had  a  roving  commission;  and,  being  fey  (for  so 
I  must  think),  he  chose  to  shut  himself  up  in  Lady- 
smith.  He  might  have  gone  whithersoever  he 
would.  But  he  would  go  nowhither  else;  and, 
having  endured  the  leaguer  until  he  got  eaten  up 
by  the  rust  of  it,  as  conducted  by  a  parcel  of  folk 
who  knew  nothing  about  sieges,  and  were  horribly 
afraid  for  their  own  skins,  he  took  enteric  fever — 
how,  nobody  knows — and  came  through  it  valiantl}'', 

*  The  other,  who  has  a  rare  political  gift,  insisted  on 
China  also.  As  I  write,  it  is  being  borne  in  upon  me  that 
he  was  right;  but  my  prescience  never  got  thus  far. 


XXIV  MEMOIR 

but  died  of  it  in  the  end — why,  most  can  guess. 
'Twas,  as  he  said,  a  ''side-ways  ending  to  it  all." 
But  it  sufficed.  By  it  he  went  from  us;  and  now  he 
rests  in  Ladysmith  cemetery,  seven  thousand  miles 
or  so  from  Merton,  where  his  heart  lay,  and  from 
London,  where  he  had  lived  the  best  of  his  life — 
the  best  as  well  as  the  most;  and  he  had  centred 
his  ambitions  there,  and  knew  that  there  lived  his 
friends.  Withal  he  died  as  it  were  in  public:  much 
as  Stevenson  had  died  in  the  days  when  he  himself 
was  breaking  ground.  And  the  effect  of  his  be- 
reavement was  found  more  shocking  than  the  efifect 
of  that  great  and  famous  writer's  own:  great  and 
far-reaching  as  we  know  that  to  have  been.  Twas 
as  though  he  had  become  a  part  of  the  things  he 
had  chronicled:  he  had  identified  himself  so  keenly 
and  so  intimately  with  the  greatness  of  England 
that,  reporter  as  he  was,  he  had  come — for  England 
is  greater  than  mere  art — to  be  her  chosen  craftsman. 
In  any  case,  no  death  that  one  can  recall  in  letters 
has  so  moved  the  English-speaking  world  as  his, 
since  Dickens  stumbled  upon  "the  cold  and  star- 
less road"  full  thirty  years  ago.  Other  and  greater 
men  have  come  and  gone — have  "one  by  one  crept 
silently  to  rest" — in  that  long  period  of  waste  and 
growth,  of  increase  and  decay.  But  none  had  made 
himself  known  to  such  purpose  and  in  such  brief 
space  as  George  Steevens,  and  of  none  could  it  be 
said,  as  was  said  of  him,  not  once  but  many  times: — 

"For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer." 


MEMOIR  xrv 

Lord  Roberts,  our  "chief  of  men";  the  famous  cap- 
tain whom  he  had  followed  to  Khartum,  z'ia  Atbara 
and  Omdurman;  the  august  lady,  whose  subject 
he  was  proud  to  call  himself — these  all  went  mourn- 
ing for  him;  and  with  these  all  Ladysmith,  where, 
in  his  high-hearted  endeavour  to  "succour,  help, 
and  comfort  all  that  were  in  danger,  necessity,  and 
tribulation,"  he  had  jested  and  smiled  himself  into 
the  hearts  of  our  sick  and  wounded,  and  had  so 
borne  himself  under  fire  that  the  fighting  men  re- 
joiced to  say  that  this  was  a  man;i  and  with  all 
Ladysmith  a  great  part  of  the  tremendous  Empire 
to  whose  beginnings,  as  a  right  political  unity,  he 
was  privileged  to  lend  a  hand. 


VL 

He  had,  as  I've  said,  an  admirable  brain,  a 
brain  of  the  first  magnitude  as  brains  go:  withal,  a 
brain  accomplished  to  the  full,  yet  never  a  hair  the 
worse  for  its  accomplishing.  Of  what  I  believe  to 
have  been  its  master-quality — I  mean,  imagination 

^  Says  a  correspondent: — "At  Eland's  Laagte,  Tinta 
Nyani,  and  Lombard's  Kop  he  was  usually  walking  about, 
close  to  the  firing  Hne.  leading  his  grey  horse,  a  conspicu- 
ous mark  for  every  bullet."  And  another  (Lynch  of  the 
'Illustrated  London  News') : — "I  hope  you  will  say  this 
that  G.  W.  Steevens  was  one  of  the  very  bravest  men  in 
Ladysmith.  I  don't  suppose  that  any  one  here  knows 
that  at  Eland's  Laagte  he  went  forward  on  horseback  with 
the  Highlanders,  when  every  other  man  with  a  horse  was 
dismounted." 


XXVI  MEMOIR 

— we  have  the  first  sprightly  runnings  in  his  un- 
rivalled 'Monologues  of  the  Dead' — a  book,  or  I  am 
mistaken,  with  a  future;  even  as  we  have  proof  of 
other  and  lesser  capacities  in  the  several  volumes  of 
this  Edition.  But  I  do  not  think  that  any  of  these 
achievements  in  realisation  and  presentation  show 
us  anything  of  their  Author's  best.  Of  that  there 
are  not  many  traces  in  his  printed  work.  Does 
a  man's  best  ever  get  into  his  books?  I  do  not  think 
^so;  and  I  say  that  with  some  knowledge  of  litera- 
ture and  men,  and  the  certainty  that,  if  I  could  now 
meet  Shakespeare,  I  should  wonder  why  he  had  de- 
clined upon  such  stuff  as  "Hamlet"  and  "Mac- 
beth." Brains  apart,  assuredly,  the  best  of  our 
dear  George  Steevens  is  not  in  his  books.  For  one 
thing,  he  saw  too  easily,  and  wrote  too  brilliantly — 
he  filled  his  Editor's  bill  too  well;  and  for  another, 
he  had,  I  doubt  not,  too  vigorous  and  lasting  a 
sense  of  the  virtue  of  privacy.  And  this  brings  me 
to  my  end.  To  realise  George  Steevens,  you  must 
put  away  everything  but  simplicity,  kindness,  sin- 
cerity. A  serene  and  comely  blending  of  these 
was  so  plain  in  him  that  you  could  see  naught  else. 
And,  in  fact,  there  was  naught  else  to  be  seen. 
These  were  G.  W.  S.,  and  he  was  ever  these  to  his 
friends.     "The  rest  is  silence."  W.  E.  H. 

Worthing,  May- June,  1900. 


THINGS   SEEN 


THE  NEW  HUMANITARIANISM.i 

In  1 813  Elizabeth  Fry,  visiting  Newgate,  found 
women  chained  to  the  ground,  lying  in  a  dark  cell, 
on  straw  changed  once  a  week,  clothed  only  in  a 
petticoat,  hardly  visible  for  vermin.  In  1897  a  deer 
was  impaled  and  killed  during  a  run  of  the  Royal 
Buckhounds.  The  epithets  spattered  over  the  latter 
fact  by  part  of  the  public  press  in  London  would 
not  have  been  at  all  inadequate  as  applied  to  the 
former.  We  read  of  "the  terrible  death  of  the 
deer,"  "the  piteous  story,"  the  "brutal  cruelties," 
"barbarities,"  and  "atrocious  incidents"  of  the  hunt. 
Both  Newgate  and  the  Royal  Buckhounds  are  pub- 
lic institutions,  and  the  country  is  by  way  of  being 
responsible  for  them.  Yet  Elizabeth  Fry  was  held 
something  of  an  eccentric  for  objecting  to  this  form 
of  the  punishment  of  the  guilty  in  Newgate ;  while 
there  are  certainly  hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  of 
people  in  Britain  who  hardly  find  the  abuse  above 
quoted  sufficient  for  the  iniquities  of  the  Buck- 
hounds. Concrete  instances  like  this  show  such  a 
change  of  sentiment  well  within  the  span  of  the 

'Blackwood's  Magazine,  January,  1898. 
1 


2  THINGS   SEEN 

closing  century  as  can  only  be  called  prodigious. 
We  say  provisionally  a  change  of  public  sentiment, 
and  not  of  public  morality ;  for  if  it  should  turn  out 
a  question  of  morality,  then  we  must  conclude  either 
that  the  contemporaries  of  Wellington  and  Peel 
were  all  devils  or  that  the  editor  of  the  'Star'  is  an 
angel. 

The  root  of  the  revolution  lies  in  the  respective 
values  which  two  generations  set  upon  physical 
pain.  You  will  see  the  same  even  more  clearly  by 
going  back  another  couple  of  generations  to  the 
days  of  Tom  Jones  or  Roderick  Random.  "Coarse" 
and  "brutal"  are  the  epithets  which  our  age  selects 
for  theirs.  But  again  the  root  of  the  difference  lies  in 
the  importance  our  modern  fashionable  sentiment — 
shall  we  say  "fashionable  cant"  at  once  and  be  out 
with  it  ? — attaches  to  the  avoidance  of  physical  pain. 
Ensign  Northerton  was  a  brute  in  his  day,  and  Tom 
Jones  was  a  man ;  in  ours  Tom  is  a  brute  and  the 
Ensign  a  demon.  It  may  be  the  essence  of  civilisa- 
tion or  an  accident  of  it ;  but  all  our  Victorian  senti- 
ments, all  our  movements,  all  our  humanitarianist 
talk,  trend  in  one  direction — towards  the  conviction 
that  death  and  pain  are  the  worst  of  evils,  their 
eHmination  the  most  desirable  of  goods. 

To  many  people — so  fast  are  we  soddening  with 
that  materialism  which  calls  itself  humanity — this 
proposition  about  death  and  pain  and  their  anti- 
theses will  seem  a  truism.  But  perhaps  some  of 
them  will  falter  in  that  belief  when  they  see  to  what 
monstrosities  this   deification  of  painlessness  can 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  3 

give  birth.  It  is  throttling  patriotism  and  com- 
mon-sense and  virility  of  individual  character;  it  is 
even  stunting  its  own  squat  idol  by  taking  away 
pain  with  one  hand  only  to  foster  it  with  the  other ; 
and,  worst  danger  of  all,  its  success  means  the  de- 
struction of  all  manlier  ideals  of  character  than  its 
own. 

Consider  the  gospel  of  painlessness  in  a  few  of 
its  developments;  and  take  first  the  simplest. 
Whence  come  the  flaccid  ideas  of  to-day  in  point 
of  health  and  sickness?  Why  do  we  hatch  out 
addled  babies  from  incubators?  Why  does  the 
'Daily  Telegraph'  endow  cripples  with  Christmas 
hampers?  In  order,  you  would  naturally  answer, 
first,  to  bring  into  the  world  beings  who  must  needs 
be  a  curse  to  themselves  and  to  everybody  about 
them;  second,  to  persuade  these  beings  that  there 
is  some  kind  of  merit  in  being  such  a  curse. 
Everybody  who  knows  anything  of  working  men's 
homes  knows  how  proud  of  its  deformity  a  cripple 
of  that  class  can  be,  and  how  that  pride  is  pandered 
to  and  even  shared  by  all  who  can  claim  kinship 
with  it.  At  a  charitable  Christmas  entertainment 
held  annually  in  the  East  End,  it  is  the  custom  to 
put  up  the  most  misshapen  cripples  procurable  to 
sing  a  hymn  by  themselves  ;  and  the  hideous  exhibi- 
tion is  by  far  the  most  popular  turn  of  the  evening. 
Now,  nothing  can  be  more  rankly  unwholesome 
than  such  a  state  of  sentiment.  It  may  be  unjust 
to  blame  cripples ;  it  is  as  unjust  and  far  fnore  per- 
nicious, remembering  that  their  case  is  nearly  al- 


4  THINGS    SEEN 

ways  due  to  the  vices  or  negligence  of  parents, 
to  pamper  them.  Parents  should  be  taught  to  be 
ashamed  of  crippled  children.  And  children,  both 
in  this  and  higher  states  of  life,  ought  to  be  taught 
to  be  proud  of  being  well,  not  of  being  ill ;  to  be 
taught  that  sickness  is  not  a  source  of  interest,  but 
a  badge  of  inferiority;  that  to  be  healthy  is  the 
prime  condition  of  all  things  desirable  in  life,  and 
that  the  only  way  to  palliate  ill-health  is  to  ignore  it. 
Such  an  education  might  be  trusted  to  breed  healthy 
bodies  controlled  and  mastered  by  healthy  minds. 
But  that  would  be  blasphemy  against  the  gospel 
of  painlessness.  Pain  is  to  be  assuaged  if  possible, 
but  cockered  in  any  case ;  to  be  pitied,  advertised, 
rewarded — anything  except  silently  endured. 

Moreover,  this  new  humanitarianism  is  always 
conspicuously  illogical  in  the  working  out  of  its 
own  creed.  Aiming  at  nothing  higher  than  the 
extinction  of  pain,  its  disciples,  by  sheer  feather- 
headedness,  cause  a  great  deal  more  suffering  than 
they  alleviate.  It  is  too  early  to  follow  the  after- 
life of  the  incubator-hatched  baby;  but  it  is  fairly 
safe  to  predict  that  throughout  a  brief  and  puny 
life  its  unwholesomeness  will  mock  the  false  hu- 
manity that  would  not  let  it  die.  As  for  the  crip- 
ples, there  is  in  Queen  Square,  Bloomsbury,  a 
small,  but  very  admirably  managed,  hospital  for 
that  branch  of  them  which  suffers  from  hip-disease. 
Now,  if  you  are  to  cherish  cripples,  you  would 
think  that  there  could  be  no  better  way  of  doing 
so  than  this — the  more  so  in  that  hip-disease  is 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  5 

both  incurable  and  incapacitating.  But  no.  That 
hospital,  because  it  is  quiet  and  no  hand  at  adver- 
tising, is  indigent  to  the  point  of  shutting  its  doors  ; 
whilst  money  flows  in  merrily  to  buy  turkeys  for 
other  cripples'  relatives'  Christmas  dinners.  Per- 
haps the  reason  for  the  antithesis  is  that  the  object 
must  not  merely  be  an  imperfect  human  being,  but, 
in  order  to  win  full  sympathy,  must  exhibit  himself 
as  such  in  public. 

Yet  it  may  be  neither  by  oversight  nor  by  incon- 
sideration  that  this  little  hospital  is  starved.  For 
you  must  know  that  among  our  humanitarians  is  a 
strong  wing,  which  objects  strenuously  to  hospitals 
altogether.  It  is  an  extraordinary  irony  that  the  self- 
sent  apostles,  whose  mission  is  to  do  away  with  pain, 
should  launch  some  of  their  finest  diatribes  against 
hospitals,  which  have  no  other  mission  in  the  world 
than  themselves  to  combat  pain.  An  extraordinary 
irony — but  it  is  perfectly  true,  and  the  fact  is  very 
fruitful  of  enlightment.  You  will  find  in  the  writ- 
ings of  these  apostles  attacks  on  the  atrocities  of 
hospitals  set  out  with  language  almost  too  strong 
to  be  applied  to  a  dead  deer.  Hospitals,  they  tell 
us,  are  shambles  where  human  victims  are  vivi- 
sected for  the  curiosity,  not  to  say  the  entertain- 
ment, of  cold  scientists.  We  are  exhorted  in  fer- 
vent rhetoric  to  rise  all  together  and  stop  the  butch- 
ery of  our  fellow-men  for  a  surgeon's  holiday.  This 
cry,  which  peals  periodically  from  a  part  of  the 
press  of  London,  is  almost  the  most  instructive  of 
all  the  manifestations  of  the  new  spirit.     The  sur- 


6  THINGS   SEEN 

geon  understands  what  he  is  doing  with  his  pa- 
tient ;  his  detractors  do  not.  His  aim  is  ultimately 
the  same  as  theirs — to  eliminate  pain  from  life; 
they  can  hardly  dispute  that.  But  just  because  he 
understands,  because  he  takes  a  broad  view,  be- 
cause, without  neglecting  the  individual  case,  he 
looks  beyond  it  to  principles  which  may  prove  of 
general  beneficence — because  of  this  he  is  next 
door  to  a  murderer.  Herein,  not  expressed  but  in- 
volved, you  have  the  craven  fear  of  pain  in  its  naked 
simplicity.  You  must  not  cut  to  save  a  limb,  to 
save  a  life,  to  save  ten  thousand  lives — because  we 
cannot  bear  to  see  the  blood.  Send  out  as  many 
cripples,  as  many  valetudinarians  as  you  will — but 
we  cannot  bear  to  think  of  the  supreme  moment  of 
kill  or  cure.  Put  us  under  morphia  to  muffle  our 
pain,  let  a  nurse  sit  holding  our  hand  and  stroking 
our  forehead.  But  if  you  inflict  one  healing  pang, 
exert  one  touch  of  salutary  discipline,  then  you  are 
no  benefactor,  but  a  heartless  devil. 

The  outcry  against  vaccination,  against  vivisec- 
tion, furnishes  an  exactly  parallel  case.  The  same  sen- 
timent is  at  the  heart  of  both — the  unconquerable 
shrinking  from  initial  pain,  even  though  it  promise 
to  repay  itself  by  tenfold  exemption  in  the  future. 
Of  course  the  agitators  against  vaccination  and  vivi- 
section assure  themselves  that  there  are  no  repaying 
benefits  to  follow,  and  in  a  way  they  are  sincere. 
But  their  sincerity  is  not  that  which  comes  from 
a  cool-headed  review  of  known  facts ;  it  is  the  sin- 
cerity of  an  emotion  which  has  overwhelmed  reason. 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  7 

An  unbiassed  deduction  from  the  experience  of 
smallpox  epidemics,  from  the  records  of  medical 
progress,  must  convince  the  most  unwilling  of  us 
that  the  benefits  of  both  vaccination  and  vivisection 
are  real  and  appreciable.  Whether  they  outweigh 
the  death  of  a  few  weakly  infants  and  the  suffering 
of  a  few  insensitive  animals  is  another  question — 
most  people  would  readily  answer  it  with  a  "Yes." 
The  anti-vaccinators  and  anti-vivisectors  might,  on 
consideration,  answer  it  with  a  "No."  But  the  in- 
structive feature  of  their  case  is  that  they  do  not 
consider  at  all.  They  never  get  so  far.  The  sight 
of  the  scabs  on  the  baby's  arm,  the  idea  of  the  yelp- 
ing of  a  tortured  dog — the  first  hint  or  imagining 
of  physical  pain — is  enough  to  paralyse  their  reason. 
The  same  blind  horror  of  physical  pain  may  be 
found  at  the  bottom  of  half  the  'isms  of  the  day. 
In  almost  all,  when  they  are  strongly  felt,  it  seems 
actually  to  destroy  reason  till  the  fad  contradicts 
itself — as,  for  one  more  example,  in  the  vegetarian, 
who  abstains  from  beef  and  chicken  out  of  pity  for 
bullocks  and  fowls,  yet  eats  butter  and  eggs  with- 
out ever  asking  to  what  fate  he  is  thus  dooming 
superfluous  bull-calves  and  cockerels.  The  like 
unconscious  self-condemnation  awaits  our  humani- 
tarians when  they  pass  from  the  domain  of  physical 
to  that  of  moral  incapacity.  Nowhere  do  they  show 
their  sentimentality  and  their  unreason  better  com- 
bined than  in  what  is  called  prison-reform.  A  plain 
man  who  sees  the  warm,  airy,  light,  clean  cells 
of  British  prisons  is  apt  to  ask  himself  wherein,  but 


8  TfllNGS    SEEN 

for  the  necessary  loss  of  liberty,  the  hardship  of 
punishment  consists.  Let  him  turn  to  the  ex- 
ponents of  painlessness  and  he  will  discover  that 
our  prisons  also,  as  well  as  our  hospitals,  are  dens 
of  hideous  cruelty.  When  he  tries  to  find  out  what 
it  is  all  about,  he  discovers  that  some  prisoners  have 
meagre  fare,  that  a  few  are  set  to  really  hard  phys- 
ical work,  that  convicts  spend  a  small  part  of  their 
sentence  without  constant  companionship,  that  hab- 
itual insubordinates  can,  on  a  magistrate's  order,  be 
v^^hipped  with  a  whipcord  cat,  and  that  warders  do 
not  always  speak  to  convicts  with  respect.  This  is 
called  cruel,  tending  to  madness,  brutalising.  Our 
grandfathers  would  have  laughed  at  such  charges. 
Such  cruelty,  they  would  have  replied,  would  come 
not  amiss  to  wife-beaters,  ravishers,  swindlers ;  if  a 
man  goes  mad  in  nine  months,  although  he  can 
constantly  speak  to  his  fellow-prisoners  at  exercise 
or  when  at  work  about  the  corridors,  then  his 
mental  balance  is  no  loss  to  himself  or  anybody;  the 
very  cat  can  hardly  brutalise  him,  since  he  has  to  be 
brutal  before  he  could  earn  it.  But  such  replies  are 
not  for  our  soft-hearted  generation.  Instead  they 
point  us  westward  to  free  America,  whose  felons,  as 
a  native  authority  has  said,  are  "better  housed,  fed, 
clad,  and  comforted  than  the  labouring  poor  of  any 
other  portion  of  the  globe" ;  whose  housebreakers 
feed  on  beef-steaks  and  hot  biscuits  for  breakfast, 
and  street-walkers  get  jam  to  their  tea.  They 
point  us  to  Elmira,  that  university  miscalled  a 
prison,  where  the    embezzler    is    taught  German, 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  9 

shorthand,  and  telegraphy,  and  the  disguise-artist  is 
encouraged  to  model  in  wax. 

It  is  all  one  more  outcrop  of  exactly  the  same 
folly.  Avoid  immediate  pain — no  matter  at  what 
cost  hereafter.  And  here  again  the  folly  is  exactly 
as  ironically  self-destroying.  It  would  be  absurd 
to  ask  whether  criminals  inflict  or  suffer  the  more 
pain.  It  may  be  all  one  to  you  whether  pain  be  de- 
served or  not ;  to  save  the  guilty  the  greater  suffer- 
ing, you  may,  as  would  willingly  many  ot  our 
crack-brained  sentimentalist's,  inflict  the  lesser  upon 
the  innocent.  But  this  is  exactly  what  they  do  not 
do ;  to  save  the  guilty  the  lesser  evil,  they  plague  the 
guiltless  with  the  greater.  In  point  of  fact,  the 
modern  vice  of  pampering  criminals  may  fairly  be 
held  to  cause  greater  inconvenience  both  to  the  in- 
nocent victims  and  to  the  interesting  agents.  For 
laxity  does  not  reform.  It  was  supposed  that  the 
University  Extension  course  of  Elmira  did  prevent 
those  who  had  experienced  it  from  returning  for  a 
further  term  of  instruction ;  only  one  day  it  came 
out  that  the  lectures  on  Moral  Philosophy  were 
supplemented  by  smacking  with  a  sort  of  butter- 
patter,  and  we  may  fairly  attribute  the  deterrent 
effect  to  the  bodily  influence  rather  than  the  spir- 
itual. For  the  rest,  crime  increases  in  lax  America. 
In  Great  Britain — severe  by  comparison  with 
America,  though  lax  enough  when  you  consider 
the  punishments  of  former  days — crime  is  decreas- 
ing. The  only  other  European  country  of  which 
you  can  say  the  same  is  Belgium,  where  our  hu- 


10  THINGS    SEEN 

manitarians  will  hold  up  horrified  hands  to  hear 
that  sentences  of  nine  years'  solitary  confinement 
are  enforced,  and  that  a  sort  of  convalescent  prison 
is  needed  to  bring  the  criminal  gradually  back  to 
his  reason.  No  such  barbarity  for  us !  Among  us 
you  will  find  a  tumult  of  voices  ever  crying  aloud 
for  less,  not  more,  severity.  And,  so  far  as  crime 
can  be  checked  or  encouraged  by  punishment,  they 
are  asking  for  reforms  that  will  spread  crime,  in- 
volve more  frequent  if  less  sure  terms  of  detention 
for  criminals,  and  thus  add  prodigiously  to  the  sum- 
total  of  suffering  among  guilty  and  guiltless  alike. 
Here  once  more  the  gospel  of  painlessness  recoils 
to  its  own  defeat. 

Nowhere  will  you  find  the  new  doctrine  better 
exemplified  than  in  politics.  It  is  a  guiding  prin- 
ciple of  that  school  which  delights  to  cry  down  Brit- 
ish methods,  British  policy,  British  achievements. 
If  pain,  as  such,  is  the  one  great  evil,  it  is  all  one 
whose  pain  it  is.  There  is  no  more  distinction  be- 
tween your  own  countrymen  and  another.  There 
is  no  more  tragedy  in  the  death  of  your  country- 
man doing  his  duty  than  in  the  death  of  an  Orukzai 
who  shoots  his  uncles  from  behind  walls.  There  is 
no  such  possibility  as  patriotism  left.  You  will  start 
reasonably  enough ;  the  true  patriot,  you  will  say, 
desires  the  highest  good  of  his  country,  which  is 
not  to  be  found  in  killing  Orukzais ;  and  though 
you  hold  an  Orukzai's  life  just  as  high  as  a  Gordon 
Highlander's,  you  do  not  hold  it  a  whit  higher.  An 
Armenian  is  a  human  life  and  a  Turk  is  a  human 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  II 

life,  and  the  one  is  as  precious  as  the  other.  You 
may  start  with  these  plausible  principles,  but  you 
will  not  maintain  them.  The  very  friction  with 
your  simpler  fellows,  who  hold  any  one  British 
life  worth  any  half-dozen  others,  will  irritate  your 
theoretic  philanthropy  into  a  steady  prepossession 
against  your  own  countrymen.  The  sight  of  any 
man  violating  your  precept  will  stir  your  humane 
indignation  to  a  bloodthirsty  desire  for  the  suffering 
of  the  violator.  This  is  called  righteous  anger,  but 
in  its  effects,  had  it  but  free  play,  it  is  the  old  irony 
— ^^humanitarianism  defeating  its  own  end.  What 
better  instance  than  the  Anglo-Armenians,  who 
first  fanatically  swallow  oriental  tales  of  outrage, 
then  frantically  exaggerate  and  agitate  till  they  have 
stirred  the  half  truth  into  hideous  reality ;  then  they 
are  for  war  and  slaughter,  as  though  a  stream  of 
blood  were  to  be  slaked  by  a  deluge.  The  pro- 
fessed war-haters  have  been  of  late  the  very  men 
who  cry  most  savagely  for  a  war  more  deadly  than 
a  century  of  barbarous  faction-fighting.  The  party 
of  force-at-no-price,  of  abstract  quixotic  justice,  is 
the  first  to  find  unsuspected — and  non-existent — 
points  in  favour  of  the  United  States  when  the 
Republic  makes  baseless  claims  on  their  own  coun- 
try and  backs  them  by  unmannerly  bluster.  It  must 
be  so  inevitably.  No  man  is  so  superhuman  in  his 
dry  intelligence  that  he  can  keep  a  principle  impar- 
tially applied  to  affairs  that  stir  the  passions  of  na- 
tions. And  he  that  is  not  with  his  country  is 
against  it. 


12  THINGS   SEEN 

Perhaps  these  are  illustrations  enough.  It  is  not 
alleged  that  the  various  modern  tendencies  here 
touched  on  are  all  ramifications  of  a  gigantic  con- 
spiracy labouring  to  impose  its  formula  on  the 
world.  They  have  their  family  likeness  and  their 
mutual  sympathies,  but  their  fundamental  unity  is 
unconscious.  Yet  that  fundamental  unity  exists ; 
the  elevation  of  pain  and — not  pleasure,  mark,  but 
— the  absence  of  pain  into  the  ultimate  standards 
of  evil  and  good.  Applied  without  common-sense 
or  self-control,  it  is  plain  that  this  standard  works 
its  own  undoing.  But  that,  it  will  be  urged,  is  no 
valid  aspersion  on  the  standard  itself.  Would  not 
the  test  of  avoidance  of  pain,  honestly  and  judi- 
ciously apphed,  furnish  a  trustworthy  guide  for 
public  action?  Does  not  civilisation  itself  consist 
exactly  in  this — in  an  organised  common  effort  for 
the  extinction,  so  far  as  is  attainable,  of  pain  and 
of  death  ? 

Certainly  there  is  a  measure  of  truth  in  this.  The 
organisation  of  a  civilised  State  is  a  vast  conspiracy 
for  the  preservation  of  life.  A  rank  socialist  might 
see  his  way  to  denying  this ;  yet  it  remains  undeni- 
able that  even  for  the  lowest,  weakest,  and  poorest 
a  modern  civilised  State  gives  such  security  of  life 
as  the  low  and  weak  and  poor  know  in  no  other 
form  of  society.  Civilisation  lays  a  restraining  hand 
on  the  strong  and  bold,  who  would  bully  us ;  it  fur- 
nishes great  devices  and  combinations  whereby  we 
may  win  comforts  from  nature  which  without  them 
would  be  too  hard  for  us.     It  finds  incubators  to 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  13 

help  us  into  the  world,  and  disinfectants  to  keep 
us  from  helping  our  fellows  out  of  it. 

Certainly  civilisation  does  all  this.  And  yet  there 
is  no  divine  virtue  in  civiHsation,  either  the  word  or 
the  thing.  If  civilisation  is  a  conspiracy  for  the 
preservation  of  puny  life,  lowering  the  physical 
standard  of  the  race,  then  civilisation  may  be  no 
blessing,  but  a  curse.  Civilisation,  further,  is  not 
only  not  divine ;  it  is  human.  If  its  broad  and  gen- 
eral tendencies  are  unrecognised  by  those  in  the 
stream  of  them,  they  are  not  less  products  of  hu- 
man will.  We  can  change  or  guide  the  stream  of 
civilisation,  after  all ;  it  behooves  us  the  more,  there- 
fore, to  look  anxiously  to  its  direction. 

The  present  direction  in  Britain  appears  on  the 
above  showing  to  be  a  wrong  one ;  if  we  are  not 
careful  it  vAW  lead  us  straight  to  national  perdition. 
Civilisation  is  making  it  much  too  easy  to  live ;  hu- 
manitarianism  is  turning  approval  of  easiness  of 
living  into  the  one  standard  of  virtue.  A  wiser 
civilisation  would  look,  not  to  the  indiscriminate 
preservation  of  life,  but  to  the  quality  of  the  life  pre- 
served. A  wiser  humanitarianism  would  make  it 
easy  for  the  lower  quality  of  life  to  die.  It  sounds 
brutal,  but  why  not  ?  We  have  let  brutality  die  out 
too  much.  Our  horror  of  pain  has  led  us  to  foster 
only  the  softer  virtues  and  leave  the  harsher  alone. 
Again,  it  sounds  absurd  even  to  use  such  a  phrase 
as  "harsher  virtues" — though  Aristotle,  to  take  one 
instance  of  a  man  perhaps  as  wise  as  we,  knew  very 
well  what  they  are.     His  ideal  of  character  was  not 


14  THINGS    SEEN 

the  kind  man,  nor  the  man  opposed  to  corporal 
punishment,  nor  the  man  superior  to  mere  patriot- 
ism, but  the  great-souled  man.  This  quaHty  is  "the 
crown  of  all  virtues ;  it  enhances  them,  and  cannot 
begin  tO'  exist  without  them."  And  among  the  at- 
tributes of  the  great-souled  man  were  these.  He 
was  the  man  "who  holds  himself  worthy  of  great 
deserts,  and  is  so  worthy.  .  .  .  The  great- 
souled  man  despises  justly,  whereas  the  crowd  des- 
pises at  haphazard.  To  be  respected  by  the  lowly 
he  holds  as  vulgar  as  to  use  his  strength  against  the 
weak.  ...  In  his  life  he  takes  no  heed  of  any 
but  his  friends ;  to  do  otherwise  is  servile ; 
which  is  why  all  flatterers  are  coarse  and  all  the 
lowly  are  flatterers.  .  .  .  He  is  no  gossip ;  he  will 
tattle  neither  of  himself  nor  of  others,  for  it  is  all 
one  to  him  whether  others  praise  or  condemn 
him." 

Nobody  wants  to  re-establish  a  Greek  stand- 
ard of  character  for  British  men — the  less  so  in  that 
its  results  as  handed  down  by  the  Greeks  them- 
selves are  not  overworthy  of  admiration.  Never- 
theless we  might  well  admit  these  heathen  virtues 
of  proper  pride  and  a  sort  of  self-respecting  egoism, 
and  others,  as  a  bracing  tonic  to  our  later  morality. 
We  ought  not  to  forget  to  temper  mercy  with  jus- 
tice— even  with  that  rude  and  brutal  exercise  of  su- 
periority which  may  be  called  natural  justice.  It 
was  not  by  holding  all  men — not  to  say  all  beasts 
— as  of  equal  right  with  ourselves  that  we  made 
ourselves  a  great  nation.     It  is  not  thus  that  we 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  15 

keep  ourselves  great.  We  became  and  are  an  Im- 
perial race  by  dealing  necessary  pain  to  other  men, 
just  as  we  become  powerful  men  by  dealing  neces- 
sary pain  to  other  animals — whether  they  be 
slaughtered  oxen  or  hunted  stags.  There  is  no  rea- 
son in  gloating  over  the  pain  we  have  risen  upon, 
but  there  is  even  less  in  pretending  that  it  does 
not  exist.  We  may  as  well  recognise  that  if  we 
are  to  remain,  nationally  and  individually,  fitted  to 
cope  successfully  with  nature,  with  rival  animals 
and  with  rival  men,  we  must  find  and  observe  some 
other  virtues  besides  those  which  consist  in  com- 
bating pain.  Already  our  gentler  civilisation  has 
softened  us  physically.  We  make  bicycle  records, 
but  we  are  not  prepared  to  converse  coolly  while 
having  our  legs  cut  off,  as  was  the  way  of  our 
great-grandfathers.  We  are  better  fed,  better 
clothed,  better  housed  than  they  were;  probably  we 
enjoy  better  health,  and  certainly  we  live  longer. 
But  we  do  not  drink  so  well,  love  so  well,  suffer  so 
well,  fight  so  well;  physically  and  emotionally  we 
have  subdued  ourselves  to  a  lower  plane.  Partly 
this  follows  inevitably  on  alleviated  material  con- 
ditions which  we  could  not  put  back  if  we  would; 
but  partl>  it  is  due  to  the  softening  of  our  cur- 
rent ethics.  It  is  believed  in  our  generation  that 
men  who  are  ready  to  inflict  pain  are  precisely  the 
men  who  are  unready  to  endure  it ,  though,  curi- 
ously, that  same  generation  refuses  to  flog  wife- 
beaters  and  assaulters  of  children.  In  their  case 
the  principle  may  be  broadly  true;  but  it  was  not 


l6  THINGS    SEEN 

true  of  our  forefathers — Covenanters,  buccaneers, 
politicians,  sailors,  pitmen ;  what  you  will.  They 
burned  and  marooned  and  beheaded  and  shot  and 
fought  cocks;  but  they  were  quite  ready  to  bear 
the  like  sufferings  when  their  turn  came.  So  they 
bred  hardihood ;  yet,  brutes  as  you  may  call  them, 
they  still  continued  to  be  not  less  generous,  loving, 
even  self-sacrificing,  than  we.  Within  the  limits 
they  recognised  as  claiming  their  duty — family, 
friends,  country — they  could  be  all  sweetness ;  out- 
side they  could  be  pitiless.  On  these  painfully 
unhumanitarian  principles  they  built  the  British 
Empire. 

At  present  we  keep  it  on  these  principles — only 
we  try  not  to  let  ourselves  know  it.  We  shoot 
down  dervishes  who  are  fighting  for  their  religion 
as  sincerely  as  did  our  own  Ironsides,  and  Matabele 
who  have  every  whit  as  pure  a  belief  in  the 
righteousness  of  slave-raiding  as  we  in  its  iniquity ; 
we  drive  Afridis  into  the  bitter  snow  to  starve 
because  they  think  it  well  to  steal  rifles  and  shoot 
strangers,  while  we  do  not.  The  naked  principle 
of  our  rule  is  that  our  way  is  the  way  that  shall 
be  walked  in,  let  it  cost  what  pain  it  may.  Mean- 
time our  humanitarians  preach  exactly  the  contrary. 
And  if  they  are  right  we  have  two  courses  before 
us.  Either  we  may  go  on,  as  now,  conducting  our 
Empire  by  force,  and  pretend  that  we  do  so  by 
charity  and  meekness ;  or  we  may  cease  to  conduct 
it  by  force,  and  try  to  do  so  by  charity  and  meek- 
ness.    In  the  first  case  we  shall  finally  engrain 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  17 

hypocrisy  as  the  dominant  trait  of  our  national 
character;  in  the  second  we  shall  very  soon  have 
no  national  character  or  national  self-esteem  or 
national  existence  to  lose. 

As  the  savage  virtues  die  out,  the  civilised  vices 
spring  up  in  their  place.  Pride  gives  way  to  the 
ambition  to  be  thought  to  have  a  right  to  be  proud ; 
frank  contempt  and  hatred  are  replaced  by  back- 
biting. The  readiness  to  hurt  or  be  hurt  physically 
we  exchange  for  a  smoother  but  deadlier  unscrupu- 
lousness.  The  duel  was  hissed  out  of  England 
because  it  killed  the  body ;  in  its  stead  reigns 
scandal,  which  kills  the  soul.  Sport,  which  slaugh- 
ters beasts,  is  yielding  to  betting  on  professional 
athletics,  which  fritters  away  the  minds  of  men.  As 
we  become  more  sensitive  to  physical,  we  become 
more  callous  to  mental  agony.  An  educated  woman, 
a  woman  in  society,  a  good  woman,  will  whimper 
for  a  week  if  her  child  is  to  have  a  mole  cut  from 
its  cheek,  and  cannot  bear  to  see  the  operation, 
lest  she  should  faint  at  the  sight  of  blood.  But  she 
will  dress  herself  carefully  and  attend  a  trial  for 
murder,  dividing  her  opera-glass  impartially,  while 
the  jury  are  away,  between  such  part  of  the  face  of 
the  accused  as  he  cannot  cover  with  his  hands  and 
the  face  of  his  wife.  And  yet,  when  that  man  is 
proved  a  cold-blooded  murderer,  this  good  woman  * 
will  be  the  first  to  shudder  at  the  reflection  that  he 
is  to  be  hanged.  We  talk  of  our  age  as  spiritual, 
but  what  is  this  but  gross  materialism  ?  Pain  is  no 
longer  to  be  considered  unless  it  can  be  felt  with  the 


l8  THINGS    SEEN 

body.  So,  while  we  shudder  at  the  pains  of  a  small 
war,  and  would  go  to  almost  any  humiliation  to 
avert  a  great  one,  we  are  every  year  more  in  bond- 
age to  industrial  strife — to  the  blind  selfishness 
of  the  locker-out  and  the  malignant  factiousness 
of  the  trade-unionist.  Here  is  more  materialism : 
death  is  not  death  unless  you  can  see  the  bleeding 
bodies.  But  then,  of  course,  industrial  war  only 
ruins  our  country :  the  other  kind  of  war  might 
hurt  foreigners.  For — deplorably,  perhaps,  but  in- 
contestably — the  content  of  the  human  afifections 
is  limited ;  and  the  more  love  we  spare  for  m.en  of 
other  race  and  speech  and  colour,  the  less  we  have 
left  for  our  own. 

And  what  a  pitiful  spirit  in  itself,  this  new  crusade 
against  pain !  It  is  not  the  cult  of  pleasure, — that 
its  votaries  would  be  the  first  to  disclaim.  It  is  a 
creed  purely  negative — a  creed,  therefore,  inferior 
to  the  merest  Epicureanism.  A  moral  code  that  is 
positive  is  at  least  a  creed  that  makes  a  man  more  of 
a  man ;  a  code  that  is  all  negative — all  antis  and  no 
pros — makes  nothing  but  a  protesting  machine — a 
string  of  self-righteous  formulas.  We  must  not  hurt 
stags,  and  we  must  not  whip  criminals,  and  we  must 
not,  it  now  appears,  cut  out  cancers ;  but  what  may 
we  do?  Attend  League  football  matches,  teach 
garrotters  moral  philosophy,  and  dose  the  cancerous 
with  homoeopathic  globules?  The  substitutes  are 
inadequate  enough  ;  but  to  do  justice  to  those  whom 
we  are  protesting  against,  it  is  not  they  who  propose 
such  substitutes.    Faddists  propose  many  ridiculous 


THE    NEW    HUMANITARIANISM  19 

remedies  for  imaginary  diseases ;  but  the  newest 
kind  of  sentimental  humanitarian  is  not  necessarily 
or  even  generally  a  faddist.  He  or  she  has  simply 
a  vague  shudder  at  the  thought  of  pain,  and  often 
backs  it  up  by  no  fad  or  positive  suggestion  at  all ; 
it  is  merely  a  sentiment  without  principle.  Only 
that  sentiment  is  coming  more  and  more  to  suffuse 
and  to  inspire  all  our  British  thought — the  shudder 
is  beginning  to  be  accepted  instead  of  a  code  of 
morality.  It  is  all  for  forbidding  and  no  permitting, 
for  undoing  and  no  doing,  for  an  abstract  average 
common  weal,  but  no  concrete  individual  weal.  It 
tends  towards  a  compact  by  which  we  shall  all  of  us 
covenant  to  do  nothing  lest  one  of  us  might  hurt 
another.  It  is  not  the  frame  of  mind  which  makes 
great  fortunes,  or  great  nations,  or  great  men.  No; 
nor  even  good  men.  Unless  a  good  man  is  good  in 
quite  another  way  from  a  good  horse  or  a  good 
table,  he  is  not  a  man  who  most  fully  embodies  the 
properties  of  a  man ;  which  object  is  assuredly  not 
attained  by  the  mere  refusal  to  give  or  suffer  pain. 
Goodness  is  difficult  to  define,  and  still  more  diffi- 
cult to  dogmatise  about,  but  it  is  at  least  safe  to  say 
that  it  consists  in  action,  not  in  abstinence  from 
action.  To  suppose  it  lies  in  a  negative,  even  of 
the  most  amiable  kind,  is  an  emasculation  of  the 
word  fit  only  to  produce  a  nation  of  blameless, 
praiseless  nobodies.  "It  is  our  sins  that  make  us 
great." 

The  idea  that  pain  is  the  worst  of  evils  destroys 
many    virtues  which  we  cannot   afford  to  lose;  it 


20  THINGS    SEEN 

fosters  many  vices  which  we  could  gratefully  spare ; 
it  is  a  bloodless,  unfruitful  basis  for  morality.  And 
for  the  last  point,  it  is  in  most  cases — not  in  all,  but 
in  most — a  lie.  The  people  that  pretend  to  elevate 
it  to  a  principle  do  not  really  beheve  it.  Out  of 
paradox,  out  of  moral  self-conceit,  out  of  genuine 
tenderness  of  heart,  they  may  say  they  do ;  but  at 
heart  they  generally  do  not.  How  many  genuinely 
believe,  and  practically  enforce  the  belief,  that  a 
beast's  pain  should  outweigh  a  man's  profit?  How 
many  genuinely  believe  that  a  wife-beater  should 
not  be  beaten  ?  How  many  truly  think  that  it  is  as 
deplorable  that  an  Afridi  should  be  shot  as  that 
a  Briton  should  ?  There  are  some  such  possibly : 
you  will  know  them  by  their  refusal  to  drink  milk, 
their  habit  of  allowing  themselves  to  be  pushed  in  a 
crowd  without  pushing  back,  their  readiness  to  give 
their  daughters  in  marriage  to  savages.  With  the 
rest  humanitarianism  is  not  a  principle,  but  a  weak- 
ness. It  is  even  a  vicarious  cowardice.  By  sympathy 
they  transfer  the  pain  of  others  to  themselves,  and 
their  pity  is  not  benevolence,  but  dislike  of  sensa- 
tions painful  to  themselves.  Now  it  is  nobody's 
duty  to  like  painful  sensations ;  but  in  a  world  full 
of  them  and  for  all  we  can  see  inevitably  full  of 
them,  it  is  everybody's  duty  to  face  them.  To  refuse 
to  do  so  vv^ill  certainly  do  little  enough  towards  their 
extinction.  And  to  the  few  who  do  honestly  try 
to  abolish  the  painful  as  such,  we  may  make  bold 
to  say  that,  should  they  succeed,  mankind  would 
be  poorer,  weaker,  and  even  unhappier  without  it. 


FROM  THE  NEW  GIBBON.* 

.  .  .  The  close  of  the  nineteenth  century  beheld 
the  British  Empire  at  the  highest  pitch  of  its  pros- 
perity. The  records  of  every  contemporary  nation 
celebrate,  while  they  envy,  the  multitude  of  its 
subjects  and  the  orderly  felicity  of  its  citizens.  Its 
frontiers  comprehended  the  fairest  regions  of  the 
earth;  and  its  authority  extended  alike  over  the 
most  dutiful  of  daughter-peoples  and  the  wildest 
and  most  sequestered  barbarians.  The  judicious 
delegation  of  the  minor  prerogatives  of  government 
conciliated  the  free  affections  of  the  Colonies ;  and 
the  ruder  dependencies  were  maintained  in  con- 
tented, if  unenthusiastic,  submission  by  the  valour, 
the  conduct,  and  the  impartial  justice  of  their  alien 
administrators.  Two  centuries  of  empire  had 
seemed  insufificient  to  oppress  or  enervate  the  virile 
and  adventurous  spirit  of  the  British  race.  It 
tempted  the  ardours  of  the  Sudan  sun  at  midsum- 
mer, and  cheerfully  sustained  the  rigours  of  the 
icy  winter  of  the  Klondyke.  While  the  hardy 
soldier  defended  and  continually  propagated  the 
distant  boundaries  of  Victoria's  dominions,  the  tran- 
quil and  prosperous  state  of  the  British  Islands  was 
deeply  felt,  if  grudgingly  admitted,  by  every  class  of 
their  population.    There,  if  anywhere  on  the  earth, 

'Blackwood's  Magazine,  February,  1899. 
31 


22  THINGS   SEEN 

was  to  be  found  wholesome  public  feeling  untainted 
by  faction  and  wealth,  unobnoxious  to  jealousy.  The 
distinction  of  Conservative  and  Liberal  preserved 
the  name  of  party  government  without  its  sub- 
stance ;  and  the  purely  formal  opposition  of  denom- 
inations, rather  than  of  principles,  served  as  a  useful 
check  on  the  dominant  party  without  risk  of  cata- 
clysm in  the  general  policy  of  the  State.  The  ex- 
ample of  France,  her  secular  enemy,  emphasised 
the  just  complacency  with  which  Britain  seemed 
to  regard  her  condition.  The  republic  groaned 
under  an  alteration  of  licence  and  tyranny ;  the 
monarchy  breathed  freely  in  the  reasonable  ac- 
ceptance of  laws,  enacted  honestly  for  the  general 
good  and  applied  indifferently  by  judges  of  grave 
sacrosancity.  In  her  foreign  relations  France  al- 
ternately intrigued  and  precipitately  withdrew 
from  the  consequences  of  her  duplicity;  Britain 
pursued  her  designs  with  unyielding  tenacity,  but  in 
uninjurious  silence.  Unvexed  by  tlie  conscription 
which  weighed  upon  their  neighbors,  and  secure  in 
the  protection  of  their  invincible  navy,  the  people 
affected  the  arts  of  peace,  and  received  the  accus- 
tomed reward  of  a  single  devotion.  The  workshop 
of  the  world  since  two  generations,  Britain  neither 
dreaded  the  competition  of  strangers  nor  listened 
to  the  cautions  of  the  more  sagacious  of  her  own 
children.  The  Recessional  of  the  sublime  Kipling 
and  the  economic  speculations  of  the  inquisitive  but 
censorious  Mallock  fell  alike  unheeded  on  the  ears 
of  those  who  were  content  to  argue  that  the  con- 


FROM   THE    NEW    GIBBON  23 

dition  of  the  lower  orders,  though  insufficient  to 
their  own  appetence,  was  luxurious  compared  to 
that  of  their  fellows  abroad,  while  the  easy  splen- 
dour of  the  rich  inflamed  the  emulation  of  all  man- 
kind; and  that  the  public  exchequer  supported 
with  facility  all  burdens  which  the  ever-increasing 
exigencies  of  the  Empire  might  impose. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  that  the  eyes  of  contem- 
poraries should  discern  in  the  public  felicity  the 
latent  causes  of  decay  and  corruption.  To  the  vul- 
gar mind  the  British  Empire  was  a  triumphant 
proof  of  the  possibility,  as  of  the  blessings,  of  a  wise 
democracy ;  yet  in  that  very  process  of  democracy 
were  inherent  the  seeds  of  ruin.  In  the  domain  of 
Government  the  political  genius  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race,  its  bias  toward  compromise  and  de- 
testation of  extremity,  surmounted  with  impunity 
experiments  that  would  have  proved  fatal  to  any 
other  people  less  singularly  endowed.  But  while 
the  leaders  of  the  nation  were  satisfied  with  pro- 
moting or  seeking  to  retard  the  popular  encroach- 
ment upon  the  functions  of  government,  democracy 
infused  a  slower  and  more  secret  poison  into  the 
vitals  of  society.  If  the  opinion  of  the  vulgar  was 
unacknowledged  in  Parliament,  in  every  other  de- 
partment of  life  it  insensibly  permeated  the  whole 
spirit  of  the  people.  It  became  a  maxim  of  Im- 
perial policy,  a  law  of  social  development,  a  canon 
of  taste.  The  Englishman  of  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century  was  accustomed  to  demand  that 
his  policy  should  be  glorious,  the  accessories  of  his 


24  THINGS    SEEN 

daily  life  unsurpassed  in  quality,  the  objects  of  his 
sesthetic  admiration  beautiful.  The  Englishman  of 
the  end  of  that  period  of  decadence  was  content  if 
they  were  cheap. 

The  student  of  that  age  will  find  melancholy 
evidence  of  degeneration  in  the  printed  records,  and 
especially  in  the  newspapers,  of  the  time.  The  re- 
ported speeches  of  public  men,  the  venal  arguments 
of  leader-writers,  the  tattling  of  the  parasites  of 
fashion,  the  statistics  of  the  markets,  the  very 
advertisements,  bear  unanimous  testimony  to  the 
debased  ideas  which  then  enjoyed  a  ready  and  un- 
protested currency.  The  Empire,  that  magnificent 
fabric  founded  upon  the  generous  impulse  to  con- 
quer and  to  rule,  was  now  formally  regarded  as  a 
mere  machine  for  the  acquisition  of  pounds  sterling. 
A  Palmerston  and  a  Disraeli  had  been  the  spokes- 
men of  the  earlier  Imperialism ;  the  later  found  its 
apt  mouthpiece  in  a  Chamberlain.  The  masterful 
truculence  of  the  British  gentleman  and  the  opulent 
imagination  of  the  Anglicised  Jew  this  generation 
cheerfully  exchanged  for  the  ambitions  of  a  manu- 
facturer fostered  by  the  arts  of  a  demagogue. 
Gifted  with  an  extraordinary  intuition  of  the  chang- 
ing predilections  of  his  countrymen.  Chamberlain 
was  enabled  to  turn,  to  the  advantage  of  his  own 
popularity,  the  flood  of  patriotism  which  rose  in  the 
decade  between  the  first  and  second  Jubilees  of 
Queen  Victoria.  He  became  the  high-priest  of 
what  was  fondly  saluted  as  the  new  Imperialism,  on 
the  lips  of    whose    votaries    British    Empire  was 


FROM   THE    NEW    GIBBON  25 

synonymous  with  British  commerce.  His  declama- 
tions, while  they  will  reward  the  curious  investigator 
with  little  that  is  either  original  in  thought  or  ele- 
gant in  expression  proclaim  but  too  eloquently  the 
altered  feelings  with  which  the  later  Britons  re- 
garded their  greatness.  Where  they  had  once  re- 
solved to  possess,  they  now  aspired  but  to  trade. 

The  jargon  of  the  day  clamoured  for  "the  open 
door,"  by  which  phrase  was  understood  a  market 
which  British  products  could  enter  on  terms  of 
fiscal  equality  with  those  of  the  rest  of  the  world. 
In  the  manlier  age  of  Drake  and  Hawkins  Britain 
had  opened  her  own  door  for  herself;  now  her 
diplomacy  all  but  petitioned  for  an  equality  of 
treatment  which  the  growing  incapacity  of  her 
own  traders  must,  in  any  event,  have  rendered 
fruitless.  Among  the  strange  ironies  which  the 
historian  of  this  period  finds  himself  compelled 
to  record,  none  is  more  deeply  ironical  than  the 
fact  that,  in  proportion  as  the  nation  came  to  re- 
gard commerce  as  its  highest  and  only  weal,  so 
commerce  itself  lost  vitality  and  astuteness.  The 
degeneracy  of  the  people  spread  to  that  very 
activity  to  which  they  had  sacrificed  their  nobler 
sentiments  of  empire ;  and  while  arms  and  justice, 
arts  and  letters,  were  postponed  in  the  general  esti- 
mation to  manufacture  and  trade,  these  mercenary 
avocations  were  themselves  pursued  without  energy 
and  almost  without  common  shrewdness.  Like 
the  ostrich  of  mythology,  her  head  buried  in  the 
sand  of  obsolete  traditions  and  antiquated  success, 


26  THINGS    SEEN 

Britain  alone  of  the  nations  of  Europe  refused  to 
educate  her  commercial  travelers  or  to  accede  to 
the  terms  of  payment  required  by  her  customers, 
clung  to  her  chaotic  weights  and  measures,  and 
haughtily  announced  to  the  world  that  it  must  forego 
such  goods  as  its  wants  demanded,  and  purchase 
only  what  Britain  was  pleased  to  sell.  In  Germany, 
in  Belgium,  and  in  the  United  States  sprang  up 
keen  and  victorious  competition;  and  though  the 
vast  wealth  of  England  was  as  yet  almost  unim- 
paired, a  few  sagacious  minds,  while  impartially 
blind  to  the  more  fatal  deterioration  of  the  nation's 
spirit,  were  already  enabled  to  foresee  and  to  pre- 
dict the  approaching  disasters  to  its  trafHc. 

At  the  same  time,  as  it  was  thus  sought,  by 
menace  or  persuasion,  to  extend  the  principles  of 
free  trade  abroad,  at  home  they  were  eating,  like 
a  deep  and  consuming  canker,  into  the  very  marrow 
of  Britain.  The  insidious  principles  of  Bright 
and  Cobden  had  made  her  the  workshop  of  the 
whole  world ;  but  they  brought  to  her  the  physical 
debility  of  the  workman  as  well  as  his  wages. 
The  profits  of  the  manufacturer  and  the  cheap 
food  of  the  operative  were  paid  for  by  the  starva- 
tion of  the  hind,  the  bankruptcy  of  the  farmer,  and 
the  ruin  of  the  landowner.  On  every  industrial 
benefit  followed  an  agricultural  calamity;  and  the 
prosperity  of  the  town  was  remorselessly  attended 
by  the  beggary  of  the  hamlet.  The  movement 
of  the  population  accompanied,  as  in  every  age,  the 
distribution  of  wealth ;  so  that  the  towns  distended 


FROM   THE    NEW   GIBBON  27 

to  cities  and  the  hamlets  disappeared  in  a  wilder- 
ness. 

The  effects  of  life  in  cities  were  apparent  and 
pernicious.  But  for  the  unbroken  attestation  of 
both  printed  and  pictured  records,  it  would  be 
difficult  indeed  to  credit  the  full  horrors  exhibited 
by  such  districts  as  Lancashire  or  the  Black  Coun- 
try at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century.  There  the 
wildest  flights  of  hyperbole  were  equaled  and  ex- 
ceeded by  dismal  truth,  and  the  sun  was  literally 
obscured  at  noonday.  A  host  of  ungainly  chimneys 
loaded  the  air  with  poisonous  fumes  which  op- 
pressed the  hardiest  species  of  vegetation.  The 
inhabitants,  penned  up  by  day  in  close  factories  or 
the  dimmer  and  more  stifling  obscurity  of  mines, 
herded  by  night  in  crowded  tenements,  were  pale, 
sickly  and  meagre;  and,  by  a  malignant  decree  of 
nature,  the  species  became  more  prolific  in  propor- 
tion as  they  transmitted  less  vigour  to  their  off- 
spring. The  philosopher  of  that  age  observed  that 
the  immigrant  countrymen  supported  the  unwhole- 
some conditions'  of  the  towns  better  than  the 
feebler  natives,  and  that  their  superior  robustness 
conferred  an  advantage  in  the  competition  for  em- 
ployment; but  the  second  and  third  generations 
dissolved  away  in  equal  langour  under  the  pestilent 
circumstances  of  an  unnatural  existence.  The 
momentary  profit  of  the  fathers  was  visited  in  de- 
bility on  the  children,  and  served  only  to  precipitate 
the  speed  of  his  hideous  process  of  degeneration. 

The  universal  experience  of  mankind  confirms 


28  THINGS    SEEN 

the  opinion  that  the  sole  defence  of  a  nation  against 
external  enmity  lies  in  the  preservation  of  a  robust 
and  high-spirited  peasantry.  The  British  farm- 
laborer  had  found  himself  naturally  possessed  of 
many  of  the  qualities  requisite  for  a  soldier.  His 
form  was  vigorous,  and  inured  to  hardship  and 
privation.  He  had  a  natural  habit  of  obedience, 
and  in  many  instances  was  already  proficient  in 
the  use  of  weapons  and  accustomed  by  the  pursuit 
of  game  to  the  simpler  operations  of  war.  The 
children  of  the  factory,  from  whom  it  now  became 
necessary  to  recruit  the  army,  had  none  of  these 
capacities;  they  were  feeble  in  body,  insubordinate 
in  temper,  and  habituated  by  experience  to  a  mode 
of  life  which  rendered  them  awkward  and  discon- 
tented in  the  field.  As  yet,  however,  the  British 
army  showed  but  few  signs  of  deterioration  from 
the  standards  of  its  glorious  history.  The  courage 
of  its  legionaries  was  unbroken,  and  its  ofiEicers, 
besides- training  them  in  peace  and  leading  them  in 
war  with  matchless  courage  and  coolness,  found 
superfluous  energy  to  raise  and  discipline  auxiliary 
troops  hardly,  if  at  all,  inferior  to  the  British  regi- 
ments themselves.  Northern  India  and  the  basins 
of  the  Upper  Nile  and  Niger  supplied  excellent 
soldiers,  who  proved  their  valour  and  endurance  in 
all  the  wars  of  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
They  constituted  the  major  part  of  the  successful 
expeditions  to  Tirah,  to  Khartum,  and  to  Bida; 
but  the  very  strength  they  brought  to  British  arms 
was  an  insidious  source  of  decline.    As  the  warlike 


FROM    THE    NEW    GIBBON  29 

spirit  and  manly  force  of  the  white  races  succumbed 
to  the  enervating  influence  of  industrial  civilisation, 
the  Government  of  London  rehed  more  and  more 
on  the  martial  virtue  of  its  subject  barbarians. 
These,  whether  in  India  or  Africa,  were  as  for- 
ward in  the  field  as  the  British  regiments,  and 
undertook,  almost  unaided  by  them,  the  necessary 
fatigues  which  contribute  even  more  than  the 
sword  to  the  successful  prosecution  of  a  campaign. 
It  was  perhaps  an  inevitable  consequence  of  the 
imperial  fate  which  impelled  Britons  to  make  war 
in  every  clime ;  since  the  severities  of  the  Afghan 
winter,  which  chilled  the  courage  of  the  British 
troops,  were  scarcely  felt  by  the  hardy  children 
of  Nepaul;  while  the  Sudanese  and  Hausas,  in 
their  turn,  were  better  able  to  resist  the  beams  of 
an  African  sun.  But  it  was  significant,  if  as  yet 
unnoticed,  that  the  masters  of  the  Empire  grew 
either  less  able  or  less  willing  to  risk  their  own 
troops  in  its  unhealthier  regions,  and  were  yearly 
more  disposed  to  delegate  their  defence  to  a  mer- 
cenary army.  The  indomitable  spirit  of  the  English 
gentleman  prompted  him  to  seek  martial  enter- 
prises at  the  head  of  the  alien  levies,  whose  con- 
tinual service  proffered  the  fairest  chance  of  action 
and  honour;  and  the  mass  of  the  people,  relieved  of 
the  cares  of  personal  service,  sank  contentedly  into 
the  languid  indifference  of  civil  life.  Black  men 
and  brown  men,  flanked  with  an  increasingly  in- 
considerable proportion  of  white  troops,  won  the 
British  victories;  and  the  cheaply  fed  British  citi- 


30  THINGS   SEEN 

zens  were  content  to  sit  and  acclaim  their  prowess 
from  the  galleries  of  the  music  halls. 

In  sport,  as  in  its  analogue,  war,  the  British 
degenerated  with  frightful  rapidity.  The  very- 
word  had  lost  its  original  connotation ;  and  the 
honourable  name  proper  to  the  manly  exercises 
of  hunting,  shooting  and  fishing,  whose  charm 
consists  in  matching  man's  strength  and  cunning 
against  that  of  wild  nature,  was  usurped  by  childish 
or  plebeian  exhibitions  of  mere  brute  strength  and 
agility.  The  Briton  found  his  pleasure  in  bestriding 
a  bicycle  instead  of  a  horse,  in  striking  a  tennis-ball 
instead  of  a  wild-fowl ;  nor  was  he  even  sensible  of 
the  degradation  that  could  prefer  a  mechanical  toy 
to  a  living  creature  with  a  will  independent  of,  yet 
conformable  to,  his  own.  Even  the  older  and  more 
reputable  games,  like  cricket,  football,  and  skittles, 
which  might  have  defended  themselves  as  affording 
at  least  a  semblance  of  wholesome  activity  to  the 
youth  of  towns,  were  turned  by  a  truly  devilish 
ingenuity  into  engines  of  enervation  and  decay.  It 
ceased  to  be  fashionable  to  join  personally  in  these 
spasmodic  but  active  pastimes.  The  populace 
thronged  to  them  in  thousands,  but  only  to  pay  for 
the  privilege  of  witnessing  as  lazy  spectators  recrea- 
tions which  were  fondly  called  national.  Some  of 
these  exhibitions  were  more  than  merely  effemi- 
nate; active  corruption  was  added  in  allurements 
to  drunkenness,  and  in  a  factious  partisanship 
which  sometimes  blew  up  to  brutal  assaults  on  the 
umpires  of    the  game,  and  was    always  a  fertile 


FROM   THE    NEW   GIBBON  31 

source  of  gambling.  In  their  amusements,  as  in 
their  wars,  Britons  ceased  to  play  a  personal  part, 
finding  a  substitute  for  the  vigorous  sports  of  their 
fathers  in  the  force  and  address  of  well-paid  mer- 
cenaries, which  in  a  more  strenuous  age  would  have 
rebuked  the  insolent  softness  of  those  who  pam- 
pered them. 

Personal  force  and  military  hardihood  were  the 
price  which  Britain  paid  for  cheap  imported  food ; 
the  other  cheap  commodities  in  which  the  people 
delighted  were  purchased  at  a  no  less  ruinous  rate. 
In  every  department  of  social  life  the  tendency  of 
this  age  was  the  same,  leading  to  the  concentration 
of  every  industry  into  huge  establishments  con- 
trolled by  a  few  heads,  and  succeeding,  by  the  pre- 
ponderance of  their  resources,  in  underselling  the 
■enterprises  of  small  private  traders.  The  Lon- 
doner of  this  period  bought  his  food,  his  clothing, 
his  furniture,  his  books  and  newspapers,  his  very 
tobacco,  from  companies,  stores,  and  amalgama- 
tions, which  counted  the  volume  of  their  traffic  by 
millions  and  their  profits  by  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  pounds,  their  emporia  by  scores,  and  their  em- 
ployees by  thousands.  The  tradesmen  of  the  pre- 
ceding generation  were  thankful  to  become  the 
managers  and  the  shopwalkers  of  their  inflated  sup- 
planters,  and  earned  a  livelihood  by  disposing  of 
goods  for  their  masters  at  a  third  of  the  price  they 
had  formerly  asked  and  obtained  for  themselves. 
The  plausible  sophistries  of  political  economy  cele- 
brated the  commercial  revolution  as  a  triumph  of 


32  THINGS   SEEN 

the  division  of  labour;  but  its  moral  effect  on  the 
people  was  as  far-reaching  as  it  was  pernicious. 
Commercial  power,  hitherto  divided  with  an  ap- 
proach to  equality  among  a  thousand  merchants, 
now  rested  with  a  few  groups,  who  absorbed  and 
magnified  the  profits  due  to  the  labours  of  their 
subordinates.  On  these  the  status  of  inferiority, 
without  responsibility  or  opportunity,  worked  its 
necessary  effect;  they  no  longer  possessed  that 
vigour  of  character  which  is  nourished  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  self-dependence  and  the  habit  of  in- 
dividual judgment.  When,  as  became  ever  more 
frequent,  a  great  business  was  in  the  control  of 
a  limited  company,  the  rigour  of  subordination 
verged  upon  the  hopelessness  of  serfdom.  The 
clerk  of  a  personal  employer  might  aspire  for  a 
partnership,  and  confidently  demand  humanity; 
but  the  servant  of  a  body  of  directors  sighed  in 
vain  for  a  position  either  of  authority  or  of  reason- 
able comfort.  In  this  organisation  of  business, 
the  peculiar  product  of  the  Victorian  age,  the  sense 
of  responsibility  slipped  from  the  directors  as  from 
the  directed ;  it  was  not  their  concern,  so  they 
argued,  if  employees  were  underpaid  or  the  pubhc 
cheated ;  all  that  was  done  was  in  the  name  and  the 
interests  of  the  shareholders.  These,  in  their  turn, 
passing  back  their  consciences  to  the  directors, 
were  satisfied  to  cloak  their  vicarious  wickedness 
with  a  convenient  ignorance. 

While  the  fires  of  ambition  were  extinguished  in 
the  breasts  of  the  lower,  and  the  voice  of  conscience 


FROM   THE    NEW    GIBBON  33 

silenced  among  the  higher,  circles  of  commerce,  a 
particular  corruption  was  reserved  for  the  con- 
sumers. The  wives  of  artisans  and  labourers  had 
hitherto  looked  to  their  own  industry  for  the  cloth- 
ing of  themselves  and  their  children, — as  the 
smaller  conveniences  of  the  slender  household  had 
been  made  in  moments  of  leisure  by  the  labour  of 
the  husband.  The  new  methods  of  trading  cheap- 
ened everything,  and  especially  clothing,  to  a  price 
within  the  compass  of  the  poorest ;  but  in  doing  so 
it  rudely  broke  the  tie  which  bound  the  lower 
classes  to  their  homes.  The  wife,  who  had  been 
wont  to  pass  the  evening  in  the  manufacture  of  gar- 
ments for  her  children,  now  bought  them  at  some 
great  emporium;  and,  emancipated  at  once  from 
the  necessity  of  work  and  the  practice  of  frugality, 
devoted  the  evenings  to  idle  gossip  or  empty 
frivolity.  On  her  trivial  excursions  she  would  be 
accompanied  by  her  young  children,  which  exposed 
their  delicate  immaturity  to  cold  at  the  hours  when 
it  should  have  been  fortified  by  sleep.  The  hus- 
band and  father,  no  longer  finding  in  his  home  the 
companionship  craved  by  his  brief  hours  of  relaxa- 
tion, sought  it  with  better  success  at  one  of  the 
gaudy  public-houses,  whose  lights  at  the  corner  of 
every  street  attested  the  vices  and  the  misfortunes 
of  the  poor.  The  happy  home  of  the  British 
plebeian  passed  from  a  reality  to  a  proverb  and 
from  a  proverb  to  a  fable,  and  the  fair  picture  of  the 
past  gave  place  to  a  blur  of  drunkenness,  indolence, 
and  disease. 


34  THINGS   SEEN 

The  prevailing  deterioration,  which  did  not  over- 
look the  lowest,  fastened  greedily  upon  the  highest 
ranks  of  the  population.  The  Court,  as  a  standard 
of  polite  manners,  had  almost  ceased  to  exist.  The 
retired  life  of  the  venerable  Victoria  during  her 
later  years  left  the  leadership  of  fashion  vacant,  and 
the  landed  nobility  was  too  impoverished,  as  well  as 
too  proud,  to  struggle  for  the  vicegerency.  The 
field  of  so-called  society  was  left  open  to  any  ad- 
venturer with  the  effrontery  to  usurp  it.  Thus 
arose  an  inner  circle  of  fashion,  or,  to  call  it  by  its 
contemporary  and  more  appropriate  name,  of 
smartness,  based  neither  upon  birth  nor  elegance  of 
manners,  nor  even  invariably  upon  wealth,  but 
rather  upon  a  bold  and  clever  arrogance,  and  sup- 
ported in  the  general  estimation  mainly  by  brazen 
advertisement.  An  aristocracy  of  birth  may  be  un- 
intelligent, but  it  has  usually  fixed  and  sustained  a 
high  standard  of  deportment  and,  within  certain 
limitations,  of  conduct.  But  a  society  like  that  of 
London,  where  the  loudest  voice  was  the  most 
eagerly  listened  to,  was  immediately  fatal  to  every 
canon  of  propriety  and  good  taste.  In  effrontery 
of  demeanour,  in  licence  of  speech,  in  gaudiness  of 
dress,  in  the  very  use  of  paints  and  cosmetics,  the 
English  women  of  fashion  drifted  farther  and 
farther  from  their  fathers'  modest  ideal  of  a  lady; 
till  at  length  there  was  not  wanting  the  final  scandal 
of  women  with  honest  reputations  studying  and 
imitating,  with  a  too  easy  fidelity,  the  costumes  and 


FROM   THE    NEW   GIBBON  35 

allurements  of  the  most  notorious  French  cour- 
tesans. 

The  love  of  letters  might  have  been  expected  to 
oppose  a  barrier  to  the  all-conquering  vulgarity  of 
the  age.  It  was  diffused  over  every  class  of  so- 
ciety; the  commonest  labourers  had  acquired  a 
taste  for  reading:  Tennyson  and  Hall  Caine  were 
the  theme  of  dissertations  in  the  mining  centres  of 
the  north  and  the  pulpits  of  dissenting  chapels. 
Never  had  books  been  so  abundantly  published  or 
so  widely  read;  the  general  average  of  literary 
merit  had  never  been  so  high ;  but  this  age  of 
mediocrity  passed  away  without  having  produced  a 
single  writer  of  original  genius,  or  who  excelled  in 
the  arts  of  elegant  composition.  With  the  vast  in- 
crease of  readers  promoted  by  the  spread  of  ele- 
mentary education,  the  social  standing,  as  the 
monetary  rewards,  of  authorship  increased  in  equal 
proportion;  but  this  cause,  while  it  lowered  the 
standard  of  taste,  at  once  inflamed  the  cupidity  and 
diverted  the  ambitions  of  men  of  letters ;  and  what 
once  had  been  a  single-minded  devotion  degener- 
ated into  a  trade,  pursued  rather  for  its  accidental 
emoluments  than  for  its  intrinsic  charm.  The 
rates  of  pay  of  novelists  Vv^ere  quoted  by  the  agents 
like  the  prices  of  stock  on  the  Exchange,  or  the 
chances  of  a  horse-race ;  and  he  who,  by  economis- 
ing his  genius,  might  have  been  a  master,  squan- 
dered his  stores  in  profuse  over-production.  With 
the  plethora  of  books  came  a  surfeit  of  commen- 
taries on  work  which  juster  canons  would  have 


36  THINGS    SEEN 

left  to  the  revision  of  posterity.  A  cloud  of  critics, 
of  anthologists,  and  of  log-rollers  darkened  the  face 
of  letters,  and  upon  the  decline  of  genius  soon  fol- 
lowed the  corruption  of  taste.  The  last  outrage 
upon  the  language  of  Shakespeare  and  Fielding 
was  a  swarm  of  periodical  leaflets  concocted  of 
illiterate  novelettes,  unmeaning  statistics,  American 
jests,  and  infantile  puzzles:  they  were  consumed  in 
prodigious  quantities  by  the  lower  orders,  and,  by 
ruining  the  business  of  those  who  purveyed  sincere 
if  not  masterly  compositions,  contributed  more  than 
any  other  cause  to  the  debasement  and  final  extinc- 
tion of  English  letters. 

With  the  proud  spirit  of  Empire  sunk  into  the 
narrow  greed  of  the  shareholder;  with  physical 
force  at  its  ebb,  sports  corrupted,  and  martial  spirit 
tamed ;  with  domestic  business  so  organised  that  it 
stifled  individuality  and  fostered  dishonest  miserli- 
ness among  traders,  and  invited  the  depravity  of 
customers;  with  elegant  manners  and  polite  letters 
a  tasteless  echo  of  the  half-forgotten  past, — the 
British  Empire  entered  upon  the  twentieth  century 
under  the  gloomiest  auspices.  To  the  acuter  eyes 
of  succeeding  generations  that  gloom  is  heightened 
by  the  reflection  that  the  mutterings  of  the  coming 
earthquake  were  all  unheard  by  contemporaries ; 
that  they  prided  themselves  on  the  greatness  of 
their  dominion,  and  hugged  the  specious  perfection 
of  their  civilisation.  Yet  decline  was  already  ac- 
complished and  irremediable,  and  fall  was  but  too 
surely  impending.    The  fair  city  still  stood,  but 


FROM    THE    NEW    GIBBON  17 

men  were  wanting  within  it.  Vulgarity,  mediocrit}^ 
and  cheapness  had  warped  and  stunted  the  most 
generous  natures.  The  minds  of  all  were  reduced 
to  the  same  level,  the  high  spirit  of  Empire  evapor- 
ated, and  little  interests,  with  sordid  emotions,  in- 
spired every  soul.  Civilisation  had  completed  its 
work  in  the  suppression  of  the  individual,  and  the 
British,  the  most  virile  of  barbarians,  the  most  for- 
ward and  energetic  of  mankind,  were  designated  by 
their  very  virtues  as  the  first  to  experience  the  dire 
results  of  its  consummation.  The  diminutive 
stature  of  mankind  was  daily  sinking  below  the  old 
standard;  Britain  was  indeed  peopled  by  a  race  of 
pigmies,  and  the  puny  breed  awaited  only  the  onset 
of  the  first  crisis  to  become  the  woeful  patient  of  de- 
feat and  ruin.     .     .     . 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  THESSALY.^ 

"Are  there  many  Bashi-Bazouks  here?"  tremu- 
lously asked  an  English  nurse  at  Volo  when  the 
Turks  occupied  the  tov;n.  "Only  myself  and  a 
half-a-dozen  others,"  replied  the  correspondent. 
An  upstanding,  clear-eyed,  clear-skinned  young 
Englishman — in  a  fez,  to  be  sure,  but  also  in  a  Nor- 
folk jacket  and  cord  breeches — was  not  the  lady's 
conception  of  a  Bashi-Bazouk  at  all.  She  had 
never  seen  a  Bashi-Bazouk ;  probably  none  of  the 
Europeans  who  had  been  making  history  in  panic- 
stricken  Volo  had  ever  seen  a  Bashi-Bazouk.  But 
they  were  all  quite  sure  that  the  Turkish  army  was 
full  of  them,  that  they  were  terrible  fellows  when 
roused,  and  that  they  generally  were  roused.  It 
was  something  of  a  revelation  when  they  learned 
that  the  only  Bashi-Bazouks  with  the  army  were 
English  and  American,  French  and  German  cor- 
respondents— most  of  them  innocent  creatures 
enough.  For  Bashi-Bazouk  means  a  civilian  who 
carries  arms,  and  the  only  people  answering  to  that 
description  were  the  correspondents.  The  mind  of 
the  Turkish  private  does  not  comprehend  the 
nature  and  functions  of  a  journalist.  Therefore, 
"Have  you  seen  the  English  Bashi-Bazouks  with 
long  whips?"     "Yes,  they  have  gone  to  eat  with 

^Blackwood's  Magazine,  July,  1897. 
38 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY  39 

the  German  Bashi-Bazouk  with  the  black  horse." 
So  spoke  the  more  highly  educated:  the  simpler 
souls  from  remote  Asia  lumped  us  all  together  as 
"Bashi-Bazouk  Allemanni,"  under  the  impression 
that  all  men  out  of  uniform  who  wore  boots  must 
be  Germans. 

We  were  strange  beasts  to  them.  They  used  to 
stare  at  us,  if  they  came  on  us  suddenly,  with  the 
fixed,  expanding  eyes  of  a  horse  that  is  about  to 
shy.  Yet,  after  all,  the  Turk's  ignorance  of  Europe 
is  a  small  thing  by  the  side  of  Europe's  ignorance 
of  the  Turk.  The  Turk's  mind  is  at  least  a  blank ; 
the  European's  is  usually  crammed  with  the  gro- 
tesquest  errors.  The  late  war,  which  otherwise  has 
done  no  good  to  anybody,  has  focussed  a  good 
many  of  these  queer  delusions,  and  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  certain  Europeans  of  bringing  the  eye  of 
experience  to  bear  on  them.  Perhaps  the  experi- 
ence is  neither  very  wide  nor  very  deep.  But  con- 
sidering the  prodigies  of  credulity  and  irrelevance 
which  stand  to  the  credit  of  some  correspondents 
who  saw  bits  of  the  Turkish  army  through  field- 
glasses,  and  many  leader-writers  who  saw  nothing 
at  all,  there  is  value  even  in  a  pair  of  not  over-sharp 
eyes  and  rather  less  than  the  ordinary  endowment 
of  common-sense.  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  who  were 
with  the  Turkish  army  knows  enough  to  write  a 
trustworthy  history  of  the  war;  I  doubt  if  there 
ever  was  a  war  about  which  it  was  so  hcart-break- 
ingly  impossible  to  be  sure  of  a  name  or  a  number 
or  a  date.     But  there  never  was  a  war  of  which  it 


40  THINGS    SEEN 

was  so  easy  either  to  be  quite  sure  that  the  popular 
impressions  were  ludicrously  wrong,  or  to  be  so 
confident  in  trying  to  correct  them. 

Because  the  Turks  wore  sloppy  canvas  slippers 
tied  on  with  string,  instead  of  the  ammunition  boot, 
it  was  predicted  with  the  calmness  of  inevitable  cer- 
tainty that  they  were  a  disorderly  rabble  who  could 
never  stand  a  day  before  the  civiHsed,  disciplined, 
well-equipped  forces  of  Greece.  Because  the 
Turks  afterwards  drove  these  disciplined  forces  like 
sheep  before  them,  it  was  immediately  inferred  that 
the  Turkish  army  was  a  magnificently  organised 
machine,  like  the  German,  of  which  civilised  Eu- 
rope must  take  account  henceforward.  From  that 
it  was  an  easy  step  to  the  conviction  that  it  was 
mainly  officered  by  Germans.  In  spite  of  this  civil- 
ising influence,  it  appeared  that  the  Turks  com- 
mitted horrible  atrocities  wherever  they  went.  And 
because  it  was  indisputable  that  the  Turks  had 
burned  the  rafters  of  a  few  mud  huts,  and  looted 
a  chicken  or  so  for  the  pot,  they  were  once  more 
a  gang  of  disorganised  rufBans,  who  were  carrying 
on  war  with  a  devilish  cruelty  that  war  had  never 
seen  before.  In  April  we  were  to  admire  the  Greeks 
for  the  victories  they  vs^ere  just  going  to  win ;  in 
May  we  were  to  weep  for  the  awful  sufferings  they 
had  undergone.  Why  we  were  not,  contrariwise, 
to  pity  the  impending  sufferings  of  the  Turks  in 
April  and  acclaim  their  triumphs  in  May,  nobody 
ever  seems  to  have  explained. 

The  easiest  to   contradict  of  these  nonsensical 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         41 

stories  is  that  which  refers  to  the  German  officers. 
Being  the  easiest  dispelled,  it  is  also  the  most  in- 
structive. Grumbkow  Pasha — a  Colonel,  I  think, 
in  the  Kaiser's  artillery — arrived  at  headquarters  on 
the  third  day  of  the  war.  He  was  called  Inspector- 
General  of  artillery;  he  held  no  executive  com- 
mand ;  he  was  never  in  a  position  to  give  an  order. 
For  four  days  he  sat  on  the  top  of  the  Meluna  Pass 
and  gave  advice,  which,  as  a  rule,  was  not  followed. 
After  that  he  went  down  into  the  Plain  and  accom- 
panied the  force  which  occupied  Larissa  —  some 
four-and-twenty  hours  after  the  last  Greek  soldier 
had  left  it.  He  stayed  in  Larissa  some  two  or  three 
days,  during  which  time  the  Turkish  army  con- 
sistently did  nothing,  and  then  he  went  back  to 
Constantinople.  "It  is  better  so,"  explained  a  Turk- 
ish officer,  with  the  charming  simplicity  of  his  race ; 
"otherwise  it  might  be  said  in  Europe  that  our  suc- 
cesses were  due  to  him."  I  smiled.  For  if  there 
was  one  man  who  had  a  right  to  be  angry  at  any 
connection  of  his  name  with  Edhem  Pasha's  oper- 
ations, it  was  Grumbkow.  To  make  him  responsi- 
ble for  the  dilatory  incapacity  which  first  failed  to 
rout  the  Greeks  at  Mati,  and  then  to  crush  them 
utterly  when  they  kindly  routed  themselves  —  it 
would  be  blasting  Grumbkow's  reputation  as  a  sol- 
dier for  ever  and  ever.  So  the  Inspector-General 
of  artillery  went  away  to  receive  an  order  set  in 
brilliants.  And  excepting  him  there  was  no  single 
German  officer,  other  than  the  military  attache  and 
two  correspondents,  with  the  Turkish  army  at  any 


42  THINGS    SEEN 

single  moment  of  the  campaign,  from  the  first 
action  to  the  last. 

Believing  what  Greeks  said  is  probably  the  main 
cause  of  half  the  misapprehensions  about  the  war. 
It  is  difficult  at  first  to  disbelieve  what  you  are  told 
by  a  whole  army,  especially  when  the  army  believes 
it  itself.  But  until  you  train  yourself  to  do  this — 
until  you  train  your  mind  into  such  a  habit  of 
scepticism  that  it  instinctively  disbelieves  every- 
thing it  hears — you  are  quite  unfitted  to  form  a 
judgment  upon  anything  that  happens  in  the 
Levant. 

Lying  is  not  confined  to  the  Greeks.  It  is  worst 
with  the  Greeks  and  the  Armenians,  because  they 
are  cleverest;  but  it  flourishes  exceedingly  among 
Turks  and  Jews,  and  all  Levantines.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  it.  One  is  the  ordinary  lie,  with  intent  to 
deceive,  such  as  we  know  it  in  the  West.  Of  such 
lies  as  this  the  regal  seats  are  Athens  and  Constan- 
tinople. Athens  during  the  present  war  was  by 
much  the  worse,  perhaps  only  because  there  was 
most  need  of  lying  on  the  Greek  side.  Also  the  liars 
in  the  War  Office  at  Athens  and  at  the  Crown 
Prince's  headquarters  found  for  a  short  intoxicating 
season  that  the  world  was  disposed  to  believe  them. 
Consequently  the  first  few  days  of  the  war  were  a 
carnival  of  fiction.  During  the  week  between  the 
battle  of  Meluna  and  the  bolt  from  Larissa,  the  cen- 
sorship— for  very  good  and  sufficient  reasons — was 
rather  rigid  on  the  Turkish  side :  on  the  Greek 
side,  it  appears,  it  suppressed  news  steadily  during 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN   THESSALY         43 

the  whole  campaign.  Consequently  the  War  Office 
at  Athens  had  a  quite  clear  field,  and  naturally  it 
covered  it  with  Turkish  corpses.  Five  thousand 
yesterday,  seven  thousand  to-dayi — when  all  the 
time  nothing-  was  happening  but  reconnaissances 
and  desultory  artillery  duels,  and  shooting  from 
behind  stone-walls  across  precipitous  ravines.  Since 
the  war  ended  the  Greeks,  curiously  enough,  have 
begun  the  same  game  again.  Seventeen  thousand 
Turks,  somebody  has  telegraphed  to  a  Roman 
newspaper — you  cannot  help  feeling  that  this  was 
surely  a  case  for  the  more  economical  postal  ser- 
vice— fell  at  the  battle  of  Domokos ;  whereas  in 
fact  there  can  hardly  have  been  much  more  than 
that  number  under  fire  at  all. 

This  sort  of  lie  is  self-contradicted  by  events. 
The  War  Office  at  Athens  got  itself  found  out  very 
early,  and  nobody  gave  it  a  moment's  credence 
again.  But  there  is  a  much  subtler  kind  of  lie, 
equally  unworthy  of  belief,  but  far  more  difficult  to 
disbelieve.  This  is  the  lie  tliat  is  believed  by  the 
teller  of  it.  Next  only  to  the  concoction  of  lies  the 
Levantine  excels  in  the  swallowing  of  them.  He 
would  not  believe  a  story  about  money  which  af- 
fected his  own  pocket  unless  he  first  had  some  rea- 
son to  convince  him  that  it  was  true.  But  short  of 
that  he  knows  no  distinction  between  truth  and 
falsehood  in  themselves,  such  as  obtains  in  the 
colder  North  and  West.  With  him  imagination 
takes  the  place  of  reason.  He  will  believe  and 
spread  the  wildest  fiction,  if  only  it  be  effective  and 


44  THINGS    SEEN 

well  devised.  If  it  is  what  he  wishes  to  believe,  or 
what  he  believes  you  wish  to  believe,  that  is  quite 
enough  to  make  him  believe  it.  And  believe  it  for 
the  moment  he  does  quite  sincerely. 

The  Turkish  army,  for  example,  contained  dozens 
of  officers  whom  you  could  not  set  down  as  any- 
thing- but  charming,  civilised  gentlemen — yet  not 
one  so  Europeanized  that  you  could  believe  a  word 
he  said.  Edhem  Pasha  himself  told  me  wi:h  his 
own  lips  a  delightful  fable  about  the  flight  of  the 
Greeks  from  Mati — how  that  the  Albanians  could 
not  be  restrained  from  singing  war-songs  as  they 
marched ;  how  that  a  Greek  pope  heard  them  from 
his  belfry  tower,  and  dashed  off  to  tell  the  Crown 
Prince  that  he  was  outflanked.  He  pointed  to  the 
very  belfry,  alive  to  testify  tO'  the  fact.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  he  believed  the  tale  absolutely,  and  I 
am  convinced  that  it  was  absolutely  false.  But  it 
was  a  pretty  tale,  and  the  oriental  imagination  was 
quite  defenceless  against  it.  If  this  was  the  attitude 
of  the  Commander-in-Chief,  you  can  imagine  the 
state  of  mind  of  the  soldiers.  They  firmly  believed 
that  they  were  fighting  the  whole  force  of  Greece, 
Italy,  England,  and  France,  and  winning  glorious 
victories  over  their  combined  armies  every  day. 
The  fall  of  each  Greek  stronghold  was  announced 
to  correspondents,  not  officially,  but  gravely  and  by 
high  officers,  days  before  the  Turks  came  near  it. 
Every  morning  my  dragoman  came  to  me  with 
stories  of  Greek  disaster' — a  thousand  Greeks,  ten 
thousand  Greeks,  a  million  Greeks,  always  myste- 


WFIAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         45 

riously  killed  between  sundown  and  sunrise.  "How 
do  you  know?"  "The  soldiers  say  so."  "How  do 
they  know?"  "Of  course  they  know,  the  soldiers." 
"Did  you  hear  any  firing?"  "No."  "Then  how 
could  all  the  Greeks  be  killed?"  "I  don't  know." 
"Do  you  believe  it,  then?"  Well,  no;  when  he 
came  to  think  over  the  probabilities  of  it,  he  did 
not  beHeve  it.  But  without  a  Western  Socrates  to 
supplant  his  imagination  by  reason,  he  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  not  believing  it  to  the  end  of  his 
days. 

In  a  war  between  nations  of  this  cast  of  thought, 
you  can  believe  nothing  but  what  you  see.  What 
you  are  told  may  be  true,  but  it  is  just  as  likely  to 
be  false.  If  there  is  any  reason  for  lying  it  is  almost 
certain  to  be  false;  in  any  case  neither  Turk  nor 
Greek  understands  the  Western  craving  for  accu- 
racy, and  neither  will  take  any  pains  to  satisfy  it. 
Most  of  the  war  was  seen  by  Europeans,  and  of  this 
some  day  a  trustworthy  history  may  be  written ; 
about  what  was  not  so  seen  the  truth  will  never  be 
known.  Anybody  who  hungers  for  statistics  may 
hunger  till  he  starves  for  them  :  he  will  never  know 
the  numbers  of  the  killed  and  wounded.  The  Turks 
could  afTord  to  tell  the  truth  if  they  knew  it.  But 
they  do  not.  I  did  indeed  meet  one  general  who 
had  entered  in  his  pocket-book  the  losses  of  his 
division  from  day  to  day.  This  was  Hairi  Pasha, 
who  was  stated  by  the  Greeks  to  have  lost  7,000 
men  in  one  fight  at  Domassi.  His  whole  force  can 
hardly  have  been  double  that,  and  the  pocket-book 


46  THINGS   SEEN 

showed  ten  killed  and  thirty-six  wounded  for  the 
whole  week.  Assuming  that  his  Excellency  read 
out  the  figures  correctly,  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
in  this  note-book,  as  I  can  see  no  point  in  carrying 
about  a  note-book  to  deceive  yourself  with.  More- 
over, it  appears  to  be  a  hobby  of  Hairi  Pasha's  not 
to  lose  men  in  action,  as  he  ruined  Edhem's  com- 
binations at  both  Pharsala  and  Domokos,  rather 
than  send  his  division  under  fire.  But  to  expect 
the  Turkish  army  to  know  how  many  men  it  lost 
is  to  ask  grapes  of  thistles.  You  can  make  rough 
guesses :  for  instance,  after  Domokos  some  900 
men  came  into  hospital;  so  that,  with  killed  and 
with  the  wounded  who  never  got  into  hospital,  the 
loss  was  perhaps  between  1200  and  1500.  On  the 
same  sort  of  calculation,  the  Turkish  losses  in  Thes- 
saly  for  the  whole  war  were  perhaps  7000  or  8000. 
But  no  Turk  would  ever  be  likely  to  put  it  at  any- 
thing so  unsensational.  Most  would  probably  an- 
swer with  vagueness  but  perfect  truth,  "It  is  not 
known."  Others,  according  as  a  small  or  large 
figure  appealed  to  their  momentary  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things,  might  say  a  hundred  or  a  hundred 
thousand.  Really  nobody  knows.  I  suppose  there 
is  a  sort  of  roll-call  somewhere,  but  I  never  saw 
any  sign  of  the  use  of  it  during  the  campaign.  Even 
if  there  were,  it  would  be  impossible  within  a  mat- 
ter of  weeks  to  know  whether  a  man  was  dead, 
wounded,  or  only  missing.  Nobody  outside  the 
General  Stafif  knew  the  country ;  nobody  knew  the 
disposition  of  the  forces.    Men  lost  their  battalions 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         47 

by  the  score,  and  strolled  over  the  Thessalian  Plain 
by  the  day  looking  for  them.  "Have  you  seen  my 
battalion?" — the  question  has  been  put  to  me  a 
dozen  times  in  an  hour's  ride.  Of  course  my  drago- 
man, or  anybody  else  that  might  understand  Turk- 
ish, directed  the  straggler  to  the  last  battalion  he 
had  met.  Ten  to  one  it  was  the  wrong  one,  in 
which  case  the  wanderer  started  off  on  his  travels 
again — ten  to  one  in  the  wrong  direction.  There- 
fore it  was  impossible  to  tell  the  strength  of  a 
corps  from  day  to  day,  impossible  to  estimate  the 
losses,  impossible  to  estimate  the  strength  of  the 
army. 

In  counting  Greek  losses  the  question  is  fur- 
ther complicated  by  the  intolerable  national  self- 
conceit,  which  seeks,  now  that  danger  is  over,  to 
minimise  losses,  and  also  by  the  frequency  of  deser- 
tions. A  man  disappeared.  He  may  have  been 
killed  and  he  may  have  been  captured ;  but  it  was 
at  least  as  likely  that  he  had  stripped  off  his  uni- 
form and  crept  back  to  his  home  in  the  back  streets 
of  Larissa  or  a  village  off  the  main  roads  in  the 
plain.  His  Jewish  or  Mohammedan  neighbours 
helped  him  to  disappear  for  the  time:  he  was  sent 
neither  to  Salonica  as  a  prisoner  nor  to  Pharsala 
as  a  deserter.  So  that  the  Greek  losses  are  even 
less  possible  to  arrive  at  than  the  Turkish.  A  Turk- 
ish gunner  would  come  in  and  announce  with  mod- 
est certitude  that  his  shrapnel  had  that  day  ac- 
counted for  2000  of  the  enemy.  About  the  same 
moment  a  Greek  staff  officer  was  commenting  to 


4S  THINGS    SEEN 

the  correspondents  on  the  curious  phenomenon 
that  so  many  hundred  rounds  of  Turkish  shrapnel 
had  not  grazed  a  single  Greek  finger.  You  can 
only  be  certain  that  the  truth  lies  somewhere  be- 
tween the  two — which  yet  leaves  room  for  uncer- 
tainty enough 

It  will  be  inferred  from  all  this  that  those  author- 
ities who  represented  the  Turkish  army,  on  the 
strength  of  its  easy  victories,  as  a  formidable  en- 
gine of  war  and  a  menace  to  Christian  Europe  were 
as  far  out  as  they  were  when  they  predicted  its 
early  collapse  on  the  strength  of  its  beggarly  ap- 
pearance. At  Elassona  it  was  a  rabble,  because  the 
men  lacked  boots — which  they  would  still  have 
lacked  had  boots  grown  on  every  tree.  At  Larissa 
it  was  an  organisation  that  might  have  shamed 
Moltke,  because  in  the  meantime  the  Greeks  had 
run  away  from  it.  In  truth  the  Turkish  army  was 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  It  was  just  good 
enough  to  do  just  what  it  did.  It  could  drive  the 
Greeks  before  it,  but  could  not  destroy  them.  It 
drove  the  Greeks  because  it  was  an  army  of  good 
men ;  it  failed  to  destroy  them  because  it  was  an 
army  of  bad  officers.  It  would  be  hard  to  exag- 
gerate either  the  goodness  or  the  badness.  The 
Turkish  soldier  is  the  raw  material  of  the  finest 
fighting  in  the  world ;  his  officer  is  the  finished 
product  of  one  of  the  worst  governments  in  the 
world.  Nobody  becomes  a  villain  in  a  moment,  but 
it  must  be  owned  that  the  career  of  the  Turkish 
officer  leaves  him  very  little  alternative  in  the  long- 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         49 

run.  He  is  not,  of  course,  the  monster  of  barbarian 
cruelty  which  British  fancy  often  loves  to  paint  him. 
In  his  demeanour  he  is  a  much  nearer  approach  to 
the  British  idea  of  a  gentleman  than  the  Briton 
often  encounters  outside  his  own  country.  Cour- 
teous, dignified,  often  vain,  but  yet  self-contained 
enough  not  to  be  a  swaggerer,  he  has  the  root  of 
gentlemanliness  in  him — a  secure  self-confidence 
and  self-respect.  You  will  not  find  in  the  Turk  the 
jerky  self-assertiveness  which  to  our  eyes  mars  the 
behaviour  of  ofiticers  even  in  the  great  European 
armies.  He  can  maintain  his  dignity  without  any 
duello  or  court  of  honour.  He  is  quite  sure  of  him- 
self. 

You  may  divide  the  Turkish  officers  into  two 
clearly  marked  typesi — each,  I  am  afraid,  with  as 
clearly  marked  faults.  There  is  the  Constantino- 
politan — the  staff  officer,  the  aide-de-camp,  the  offi- 
cer of  the  crack  regiments  quartered  about  the 
Yildiz;  there  is  also  the  regimental  officer  from 
the  provinces.  The  first  is  usually  a  man  of  some 
means,  occasionally  of  great  wealth.  He  gets  pro- 
motion early.  He  reflects  something  of  the  cosmo- 
politanism of  Constantinople;  he  is  a  man  of  refine- 
ment, talks  French  or  German  or  both,  is  quite 
emancipated  from  fanatical  Mohammedanism, 
drinks  sweet  champagne  and  neglects  prayer-time, 
is  a  bit  of  a  courtier.  And  it  is  just  this  bit  of  a 
courtier  that  is  his  ruin.  He  is  insincere,  an  in- 
triguer, not  too  scrupulous  about  money.  In  the 
study  of  their  profession  officers  of  this  class,  es- 


50  THINGS    SEEN 

pecially  the  younger,  arc  theoretically  very  well 
equipped.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  a  little  lieutenant 
who  spoke  of  "les  lois  de  la  tactique"  with  the  same 
hushed  awe  as  of  "sa  Majeste  Imperiale."  One  of 
the  laws,  I  remember,  was  that  you  must  never  on 
any  account  attack  the  enemy  unless  with  at  least 
double  his  force.  But  I  am  afraid  this  well-edu- 
cated and  most  amiable  ofificer  had  not  the  least 
beginning  of  the  makings  of  a  real  soldier.  He  had 
never  been  out  of  Constantinople  in  his  life  before ; 
he  was  a  wobbly  and  tactless  horseman ;  he  puffed 
heavily  up-hill;  he  had  not  the  very  vaguest  idea 
of  finding  his  way  across  a  country.  He  could 
ride  along  a  road  twice  daily  for  a  week,  and  not 
recognise  it  when  he  struck  it  in  the  middle.  To 
do  him  justice,  he  could  live  on  next  to  nothing, 
though  he  was  a  glutton  for  sleep.  He  never  did 
anything  on  his  own  responsibility.  Although  he 
had  no  duties  to  speak  of,  being  merely  a  loosely 
attached  aide-de-camp  to  nobody  in  particular,  he 
preferred  to  sit  about  with  his  friends  in  Larissa 
rather  than  go  out  to  see  the  battle  of  Pharsala. 
After  the  Turkish  repulse  at  Velestino,  when  every- 
body expected  another  engagement  for  the  morrow, 
he  went  off  with  a  relative  to  a  little  picnic  ten 
miles  in  rear.  One  day  I  was  riding  out  with  him 
to  Meluna,  the  Commander-in-Chief  being  ahead, 
when  there  came  down  the  pass  a  pony  with  bag- 
gage which  he  thought  he  recognised.  "The  Mar- 
shal is  in  retreat;  the  Greeks  are  advancing,"  he 
said;    and  without  another  word  whipped  round 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         51 

and  was  well  on  his  way  down  the  pass  before  I 
could  persuade  him  even  to  ask  whether  his  fears 
were  justified.  He  was  a  good-hearted  boy,  and 
so  far  as  I  know  perfectly  honest  and  independent. 
But  he  was  quite  helpless  outside  a  town,  had  no 
initiative,  no  power  of  command.  I  should  not  like 
to  say  he  was  a  coward,  but  he  was  certainly  con- 
spicuously lacking  in  dare-devilry  and  adventure. 
And  he  was  a  very  favourable  specimen  of  his  class. 
The  provincial  officer  is  entirely  different.  He 
is  often  penniless,  and  he  is  often  a  subaltern  at 
fifty.  But  he  is  generally  a  brave  man ;  he  is  inured 
to  a  rough  life ;  he  knows  his  men,  and  they  know 
him.  So  far  he  is  better  equipped  for  command. 
Yet,  rough  as  he  is,  he  is  generally  self-indulgent; 
he  is  sluggish  and  utterly  uneducated.  He  is  left 
a  good  deal  to  his  own  initiative  in  war-time;  he 
has  no  field-glass ;  he  does  not  know  in  the  least 
what  is  going  on;  it  is  always  odds  that  he  will 
lead  his  men  into  the  wrong  place,  and  then  not 
know  how  to  get  them  out  again.  He  is  a  straighter 
man  than  the  town-bred  officer,  and  if  he  says  he 
is  your  friend  he  probably  means  that  he  would  put 
himself  to  some  little  inconvenience  to  serve  you ; 
most  of  the  other  kind  would  not  willingly  give 
you  a  biscuit  though  you  were  starving.  Neither 
kind  of  ofificer  is  exceedingly  disciplined — the  pro- 
vincial hardly  at  all,  but  then  he  does  not  exact 
much  discipline  from  those  under  him.  His  men 
do  not  salute  him,  and  he  does  not  care.  He  sees 
that  his  orders  are  obeyed  when  he  gives  them; 


52  THINGS    SEEN 

but  he  usually  finds  it  less  trouble  to  give  no  orders 
at  all,  and  let  the  company  or  the  battalion  com- 
mand itself. 

Of  course  we  know  for  a  fact  that  there  have  been 
German  officers  "reorganising"  the  Turkish  army ; 
but  we  also  know — at  least  the  less  ignorant  of  us 
— that  they  have  been  almost  heartbroken  from 
first  to  last,  because  nobody  ever  took  the  least 
notice  of  their  recommendations.  They  have  left 
the  Turkish  army  very  much  as  they  found  it.  The 
infantry,  for  example,  has  not  the  rudiments  of  fire 
discipline.  You  would  have  said  the  first  step  to- 
wards Germanizing  them  would  have  been  to  teach 
them  to  fire  volleys ;  but  I  doubt  if  they  fired  a 
single  volley,  otherwise  than  accidentally,  during 
the  whole  war.  I  doubt  if  they  ever  formed  a  firing- 
line.  Their  favourite  formation  seemed  to  be  a 
kind  of  mixture  of  a  skirmishing  line  and  columns 
of  companies.  Each  company  as  it  went  under  fire 
spread  out  behind  the  last ;  and  the  men  either 
fired  so  high  that  their  bullets  went  clear  over  the 
enemy  or  so  low  that  they  lodged  in  their  comrades' 
backs.  They  would  probably  have  been  effective 
with  the  bayonet,  though  I  doubt  if  they  were  ever 
taught  its  use.  Only,  though  there  were  bayonet 
charges  at  Meluna,  the  Greeks  never  waited  to  see 
what  they  could  do  with  cold  steel. 

Indeed,  thinking  it  over,  I  wonder  to  myself  how 
there  came  to  be  any  Greeks  killed  at  all.  The 
artillery  was  good,  no  doubt,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war;    but  artillery  practice  may  be  very  good 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         53 

and  yet  hit  nobody.  According  to  accounts  from 
the  Greek  side,  this  was  very  much  what  happened. 
The  cavalry' — that  hobgoblin  cavalry,  sticking  to 
the  backs  of  the  scuttling  Greeks — seems  to  have 
done  singularly  Httle  for  the  noise  it  made.  The 
swarms  of  fierce  troopers  that  everybody  was  talk- 
ing about  let  the  Greeks  escape  from  Larissa,  from 
Pharsala,  and  from  Domokos.  But  why?  For  the 
very  simple  reason  that  there  were  no  swarms  of 
fierce  troopers.  On  their  own  showing  the  Turks 
never  had  more  than  four  regiments  of  looo  sabres 
apiece,  and  even  this  was  an  enormous  exaggera- 
tion. The  average  strength  of  a  squadron  was 
thirty  to  forty  horses,  and  I  never  saw  more  than 
ten  squadrons  together.  With  deductions  for 
patrols,  escorts,  and  orderlies,  I  greatly  doubt  if 
the  Turks  ever  liad  more  than  500  effective  cavalry. 
Such  as  it  was,  the  cavalry  went  to  Velestino.  And 
there  an  aide-de-camp  of  the  Sultan  and  son  of 
Ghazi  Mukhtar  Pasha  found  it  somewhere  about 
the  field,  and  suggested  a  charge.  He  was  not  in 
command  of  the  cavalry,  nor  of  anything  else,  but 
as  he  had  studied  in  Germany  and  ought  to  have 
known  better,  the  cavalry  obeyed  him  and  charged. 
It  charged  in  column  up-hill,  against  earthworks 
in  front  and  flank.  It  was  as  desperate  a  piece  of 
heroism  as  Balaklava — and  even  more  wickedly 
useless.  The  loss  in  men  was  not  very  heavy — 
there  were  not  very  many  men  to  losci — but  scores 
of  horses  were  put  out  of  action,  and  after  Velestino 
the  cavalry  was  even  less  terrible  than  before.    As 


54  THINGS   SEEN 

the  Greeks,  however,  while  asserting  that  they  had 
annihilated  it,  continued  to  be  as  much  afraid  of  it 
as  ever,  the  loss  had  little  effect  on  the  war. 

With  the  Turkish  infantry  almost  untrained  and 
the  artillery  not  much  better,  the  cavalry  almost 
non-existent  and  the  engineers  quite  so,  it  seems  a 
wonder  indeed  that  they  walked  across  Thessaly 
in  triumph.  But  the  Turkish  soldier  is  such  a  mar- 
vel of  strength  and  endurance  that  he  could  do 
sapper's  work  as  well  as  his  own  and  be  none  the 
worse  for  it.  He  also  did  the  ordnance  and  trans- 
port and  ambulance  work — and  did  it  wonderfully 
well,  considering  that  it  was  none  of  his  business. 
As  far  as  I  could  find  out,  there  was  no  member 
of  the  General  Staff  responsible  for  the  transport. 
When  ammunition  or  biscuit  or  fodder  was  wanted, 
a  battalion  of  infantry  was  sent  off  with  a  train  of 
pack-ponies  and  brought  it  in.  Who  found  out  that 
it  was  wanted,  who  decided  who  should  fetch  it, 
whence  and  whither,  I  could  find  no  single  ofiEicer 
who  knew ;  yet  it  always  came.  Elassona  was  dis- 
tant seventy  to  eighty  miles  from  its  base  on  the 
Salonica-Monastir  railway ;  at  first  everything  had 
to  be  brought  up  on  pack-saddles ;  yet  it  always 
came.  Later,  both  in  Macedonia  and  Thessaly,  it 
was  possible  to  replace  ponies  and  infantry  bat- 
talions by  carts  and  Christians.  But  at  first  the 
transport,  though  wonderfully  efficient  in  its  won- 
derful way,  was  a  serious  drain  on  the  fighting  force 
of  the  army. 

Why,  then,  were  the  Turks  victorious?     Were 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         55 

their  defects  of  training  and  organisation  redeemed 
by  any  brilliant  strategical  skill  ?  That  least  of 
all.  "I  think  Mushir  Pasha  nice  chap,"  said  my 
dragoman  to  me  in  an  expansive  moment,  and  so 
indeed  he  was — dignified,  kindly,  humorous,  a  com- 
plete and  perfect  gentleman.  But  that  does  not 
make  a  great  general.  It  is,  indeed,  difhcult  to 
judge  of  Edhem  Pasha's  performance  without  the 
risk  of  injustice.  We  were  told — by  belated  English 
newspapers — that  the  Sultan  had  given  him  a  free 
hand.  Yet  it  is  certain  that  he  never  went  forward 
faster  than  the  field-telegraph,  of  which  the  other 
end  was  in  the  Yildiz.  It  may  be  that  in  Turkey, 
where  personal  government  is  really  personal  and 
you  will  do  well  not  to  forget  it,  a  free  hand  is  not 
quite  so  free  as  it  is  elsewhere.  As  a  general  Edhem 
gave  the  impression  of  being  sound  and  safe,  but 
very,  very  slow.  Perhaps  it  would  be  kindest  to 
hold  that  his  soundness  was  all  his  own,  and  that 
when  he  was  slow  the  telegraph-line  from  the  Yildiz 
was  tugging  at  his  coat-tails.  But,  after  all,  Edhem 
is  a  Turk,  and  the  Turk  has  never  been  distin- 
guished for  celerity  in  the  hour  of  victory.  His 
pace  in  pursuit  has  usually  been  much  the  same  as 
his  pace  in  retreat,  which  is  not  hurried.  Whether 
it  be  laid  to  Edhem's  charge  or  the  Sultan's  it  is 
certain  that  a  prodigious  deal  of  time  was  wasted 
in  the  campaign,  and  that  it  was  this  waste  of  time 
which  saved  the  Greek  army  again  and  again.  After 
Meluna  a  whole  day  was  lost  before  sending  down 
the  cavalry  to  reconnoitre,  although  they  had  taken 


56  THINGS   SEEN 

no  part  in  the  battle  and  were  perfectly  fresh.  After 
that,  at  the  so-called  battle  of  Mati,  the  attack  was 
delayed  until  Hamdi  Pasha's  division  could  come 
up  from  Karya  and  outflank  the  Greek  right. 
Hamdi  delayed,  and  Edhem  waited :  a  partial  at- 
tack was  delivered  on  April  23rd  upon  the  Greek 
right  in  the  afternoon,  and  they  bolted  unpursued 
in  the  night.  Had  the  attack  been  made  in  the 
morning,  the  Crown  Prince's  army  would  have 
been  smashed  to  pieces  by  dark.  Even  the  next 
day  there  was  no  pursuit :  Larissa  was  not  occupied 
till  the  25th,  and  even  after  that  there  was  no  pur- 
suit. Torpor  ensued.  On  May  ist  Naim  Pasha 
fought  the  unsuccessful  action  of  Velestino.  He 
fought  against  orders,  and  with  a  force  far  too  weak 
for  his  purpose ;  but  for  all  that  the  stronger  force 
should  have  been  there — of  course  it  arrived  next 
morning» — and  with  it  orders  to  keep  the  Greeks 
on  the  run.  By  this  time  the  panic  of  the  Greeks 
had  been  checked,  and  they  had  talked  themselves 
into  self-confidence  again.  Yet  it  was  not  till  May 
5th  that  Edhem  marched  out  and  beat  the  Greeks 
at  Pharsala.  Here  once  more  defeat  should  have 
been  rout :  that  it  was  not  so  was  due  to  the  in- 
competence of  Hairi  Pasha,  who  should  have  cut 
the  road  to  Domokos,  and  to  the  incompetence  of 
Edhem  Pasha,  who  did  not  get  his  orders  obeyed. 
The  Greeks  were  not  even  pursued.  Upon  Pharsala 
followed  inevitably  the  occupation  of  Velestino  and 
Volo.  But  after  that — from  the  8th  to  the  17th  of 
May — Edhem  did  nothing.     Bairam  was  the  ex- 


WHAT   HAPPENED    IN   THESSALY         57 

cuse;  but  masters  of  war  take  no  account  of  re- 
ligious festivals,  and  even  Bairam  was  but  four  days 
out  of  nine.  The  Greeks  were  allowed  to  rest  and 
entrench  themselves  comfortably,  and  measure  off 
their  ranges  at  Domokos  as  they  had  done  at 
Pharsala.  At  Domokos  the  Turks  paid  with  the 
heaviest  day's  loss  of  the  war  for  this  and  for  re- 
newed incompetence  on  the  part  of  their  generals. 
Once  more  Edhem  tried  flanking  and  cutting  the 
retreat;  once  more  his  generals  were  late,  and 
lazy,  and  insubordinate ;  and  once  more  he  sat  still 
and  allowed  himself  to  be  disobeyed.  There  was 
only  one  energetic  pursuing  movement  in  the  whole 
war,  and  that  was  on  the  last  day  of  it,  when  Sey- 
foullah  Pasha  attacked  the  Greek  rear-guard  in  the 
descent  of  the  Furka  Pass.  But  for  the  armistice 
the  Turkish  cavalry  would  that  day  at  last  have  got 
at  the  Greeks  retreating  on  the  level,  with  four 
hours  of  good  daylight  before  them.  And  that 
action  was  fought  without  the  knowledge  and 
against  the  wishes  of  Edhem  Pasha. 

Why,  then,  once  more,  were  the  Turks  victori- 
ous? If  it  was  not  training,  nor  organisation,  nor 
generalship,  what  was  it?  Simply  this:  that  the 
Turk  is  a  brave  man,  while  the  Greek  is  otherwise. 
The  Turkish  soldier  may  be  badly  trained  and 
badly  organised  and  badly  led ;  he  remains  a  splen- 
did soldier.  He  loves  war,  and  he  has  a  natural 
turn  for  it.  He  can  bear  without  a  murmur  priva- 
tions which  would  kill  most  Europeans — without 
even  a  suspicion  that  they  are  hardships  at  all.    He 


58  THINGS   SEEN 

has  no  more  of  the  Continental  smartness  than  his 
officers  have  of  the  Continental  code  of  honour; 
but  he  can  keep  at  his  shambling  three  miles  an 
hour,  in  heavy  marching  order,  for  ever.  He  can 
march  all  day  and  fight  all  night,  and  be  ready  for 
a  turn  at  road-making  in  the  morning.  He  can 
receive  a  bullet  through  the  belly  or  ripping  up  his 
arm  from  wrist  to  elbow ;  he  can  lie  so  in  the  sun 
all  day,  ride  twenty  miles  on  a  pack-saddle  into 
hospital,  and  when  he  gets  there  the  difficulty  is 
not  so  much  to  cure  him  as  to  persuade  him  that 
it  is  worth  while  getting  his  clothes  off.  Life  in 
rural  Turkey  is  poor  enough  and  insecure  enough 
to  prevent  him  from  overvaluing  it;  therefore  he 
will  unflinchingly  face  fire  which  more  civilised 
men  would  shrink  from.  And  though  the  Turk' — 
as  opposed,  for  instance,  to  the  Kurd  and  the  Arab 
— is  not  fanatical,  he  still  retains  sufficient  inborn 
faith  in  the  Prophet  and  the  Koran  to  believe  that 
if  he  is  shot  by  the  infidel  he  will  sleep  that  night 
in  the  arms  of  Houris  in  Paradise. 

The  very  faults  of  the  Turk  work  together  to 
the  advantage  of  his  soldierliness.  If  he  is  the  lord 
of  subject  populations  —  which  is  curiously  con- 
strued into  a  crime  in. him  by  the  owners  of  India 
and  South  Africa — he  draws  therefrom  the  con- 
sciousness of  superiority  which  makes  it  impossible 
for  him  to^  run  from  a  Greek.  He  may  retreat,  as 
at  Velestino ;  but  he  does  it  very  unwillingly,  very 
slowly  and  defiantly,  only  praying  that  the  despised 
enemy  may  venture  down  into  the  plain  and  follow. 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY  59 

If  the  Turk  is  uncivilised,  he  reaps  the  compensa- 
tion of  it  in  his  untiring  body  and  his  unshaking 
nerves.  If  he  is  dull  and  unintelligent,  he  is  just 
for  that  reason  the  best  disciplined  soldier  in  the 
world. 

The  best  disciplined  soldier  in  the  world !  It 
seems  a  startling  eulogy  to  select  for  the  Turk  of 
all  men — 'the  unspeakable  Turk !  But  it  is  abso- 
lutely true.  He  is  not  excitable  nor  argumentative ; 
he  is  accustomed  to  the  feeling  of  superiority,  and 
therefore  less  liable  than  other  men  to  become  in- 
toxicated with  victory  or  insubordinate  in  defeat. 
Consequently  he  will  always  obey  his  officers  when 
they  tell  him  not  to  burn  or  plunder.  If  they  do 
not  tell  him,  he  is  but  a  man  and  a  soldier  in  the 
enemy's  country;  he  will  take  anything  he  may 
have  need  of,  or  indeed  anything  he  thinks  he  can 
sell.  Wanton  dam.age,  beyond  this,  the  real  Turk 
takes  little  pleasure  in  ;  his  grave  and  self-contained 
nature  does  not  break  out  in  promiscuous  smashing 
and  bonfiring  like  that  of  the  Albanian  and  of  cer- 
tain Europeans.  In  the  late  war  it  was  to  the  inter- 
est of  the  Turks  to  behave  with  humanity,  and  they 
did  it.  It  would  be  unjust  to  put  their  moderation 
and  discipline  on  this  ground  alone.  Most  of  the 
officers,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  are  as  humane, 
though  not  as  sensitive,  as  most  Europeans;  and 
the  common  soldier,  though  he  despises  the  Greek, 
cherishes  no  active  hostility  against  the  race,  as  he 
has  lately  come  to  do  against  the  Armenian.  But 
leaving  humanity  aside,  it  was  the  plain  and  vital 


6o  THINGS   SEEN 

interest  of  the  Turk  to  be  on  his  best  behaviour 
during  the  Thessalian  campaign.  He  had  corres- 
pondents with  him  who  would  tell  the  world  if  he 
behaved  well,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  enemies 
who  would  say  he  behaved  badly  whatever  he  did. 
There  was  an  impression — mistaken  as  it  turns  out, 
at  least  so  far  as  regards  Britain — that  he  would 
reap  the  benefit  of  good  conduct  when  Europe 
came  to  have  its  say  in  the  terms  of  peace.  There 
was  every  inducement  to  avoid  pillage  and  cruelty ; 
but  without  the  discipline  of  the  common  Turk 
these  inducements  would  have  appealed  to  the 
higher  officers  in  vain. 

But  were  pillage  and  cruelty  avoided  ?  We  have 
been  told  that  they  were  not.  The  press  has  been 
drenched  with  the  usual  stories  of  Turkish  outrage. 
We  have  been  told  that  the  correspondents  with 
the  Turks  were  allowed  to  send  no  word  but  what 
was  favourable  to  the  Turks.  Wait  till  they  come 
home  unmuzzled,  said  the  friends  of  Greece,  and 
then  you  will  hear !  For  all  this  outcry,  I  have  not 
yet  heard  that  any  European  correspondent  wdio 
w^ent  through  the  campaign  with  Edhem.  Pasha's 
army  has  felt  it  necessary  to  improve  the  occasion 
of  his  unmuzzling  by  any  such  stories  of  Turkish 
atrocity  as  seem  to  have  been  promised  to  an  await- 
ing world.  The  iniquity  of  the  censorship  has  not 
yet  been  laid  bare.  It  is  quite  true  that  on  the 
one  occasion  when  I  thought  it  necessary  to  allude 
to  the  want  of  discipline  of  certain  Albanian  irregu- 
lars, the  despatch  was  returned,  with  that  passage 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY         6l 

neatly  scored  out  in  blue  pencil.  But  after  all,  a 
censorship  is  only  human,  and  that,  among  other 
things,  is  what  it  is  for.  No  other  military  censor- 
ship in  the  world  would  have  let  the  thing  pass,  and 
only  with  the  Turkish  censorship — the  unorganised, 
happy-go-lucky,  apologetic  Turkish  censorship — 
would  it  have  been  worth  while  to  try  it.  Probably 
the  censor — or,  more  accurately,  the  officer  who  to 
his  distraction  was  pitched  upon  as  censor  for  the 
day — would  have  crossed  out  any  charges  of  whole- 
sale incendiarism  whenever  they  were  made.  But 
they  were  not  made,  because  they  were  not  called 
for. 

The  Turkish  atrocities  may  be  inquired  into 
under  three  heads — burning,  pillage,  and  worse. 
Burning  there  undoubtedly  was ;  and  though  the 
sum-total  of  damage  done  amounted  to  wonderfully 
litile,  it  was  more  irritating  in  proportion  than  any 
other  kind  of  disorder,  because  there  was  no  possi- 
ble profit  in  it.  But  to  allege,  as  I  understand  was 
done,  that  the  Turks  were  wantonly  burning  every 
village  they  set  foot  in,  is  the  grossest  of  slanders. 
Going  carefully  over  the  map,  this  is  the  list  of  the 
damage  I  saw.  At  Karadere  (the  Greek  Ligaria), 
at  the  foot  of  the  Meluna  Pass,  one  or  two  houses 
were  burned  out  on  the  day  after  the  village  was 
occupied.  I  thought  at  the  time  it  was  done  for  a 
military  signal ;  but  I  doubt  wdiether  this  was  so. 
The  village  of  Kazaklar,  half-way  between  Meluna 
and  Larissa,  was  pretty  well  burned  out.  When  this 
.was  done  I  do  not  know,  as  I  only  saw  it  in  re- 


62  THINGS   SEEN 

turning.  I  do  not  think  it  was  on  fire  at  any  time 
before  the  taking  of  Larissa.  Neither  in  Tyrnavos 
on  the  day  after  its  capture,  nor  in  Larissa  on  the 
day  of  its  capture,  was  a  single  house  on  fire.  I 
saw  only  one  fire  in  Larissa  during  the  whole  war. 
This  was  said  to  be  an  accident,  and  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  it.  On  the  other  hand,  the  village  of 
Deliler  was  almost  wholly  destroyed  on  the  night 
of  the  fight  there' — whether  set  afire  by  shells,  by 
the  entering  Turks  or  the  retreating  Greeks,  I  do 
not  know :  nobody  knows  on  such  occasions.  After 
the  taking  of  Larissa,  following  the  course  of  the 
fighting,  the  village  in  front  of  Velestino- — Rizomy- 
los  it  appears  to  be  called' — was  very  badly  knocked 
about :  as  the  place  was  occupied  by  the  Greeks, 
taken  by  the  Turks,  reoccupied  by  Greek  outposts, 
and  then  once  more  occupied  by  the  Turks,  the 
damage  was  not  unnatural.  In  Velestino  itself 
about  one  house  in  four  or  five  was  damaged. 
About  Pharsala  there  were  fires  after  the  battle  in 
five  villages, — ^Tatari,  Barakli,  Sechi,  Pasia  Magula, 
and  Vasili, — but  none  of  them  suffered  at  all  severe- 
ly except  the  last  two.  In  Pharsala  itself  there  have 
been  fires  in,  I  should  say,  about  one  house  in  ten : 
when  this  was  done  I  cannot  say,  as  I  cannot  re- 
member seeing  any  burning  during  the  ten  days  I 
was  within  sight  of  the  place.  Southwards  towards 
Domokos  I  saw  a  small  fire  in  Hadji  Amar  as  the 
troops  passed  through  it  to  the  attack  of  the  Greek 
position.  During  the  same  fight  huts  were  burned 
in  Krol-Oba  and  Purnari.    The  Turks  said  that  this 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN   THESSALY        63 

had  been  done  by  the  Greeks  as  they  evacuated,  and 
certainly  they  were  both  ablaze  an  hour  or  more 
before  the  first  Turks  entered  them.  In  Domokos 
itself,  which  probably  suffered  more  severely  than 
any  other  place  of  any  size,  the  example  of  incen- 
diarism was  unquestionably  set  by  the  Greeks. 
Flames  were  rising  from  the  height  before  dawn, 
at  three  or  four  in  the  morning.  The  evacuation,  it 
seems,  only  began  at  midnight  and  I  have  heard 
since  that  an  English  correspondent,  who  stayed 
some  hours  behind  the  army,  saw  with  his  own  eyes 
Greek  irregulars  setting  fire  to  houses.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  when  the  Albanian  irregulars  arrived 
they  followed  the  example  with  zeal.  I  believe  the 
Greeks  had  begun  the  conflagration  with  an  old 
mosque — at  any  rate  there  was  a  charred  minaret 
beside  it,  and  the  Turks  believed  there  had  been 
sacrilege.  About  a  third  of  Domokos  was  burned 
out. 

The  list  looks  a  fairly  long  one,  but  the  actual 
damage  done  was  wonderfully  small.  The  ordinary 
Thessalian  village  is  mainly  composed  of  mud  huts, 
and  mud  does  not  burn ;  possibly  the  fire  even  does 
the  sun-dried  bricks  good.  When  a  village  of  this 
kind  is  burned,  it  simply  means  the  loss  of  its  lath 
rafters  and  the  breaking  of  its  tiles — not  a  ruinous 
loss  even  to  a  peasant.  More  pretentious  buildings, 
as  at  Velestino  and  Domokos,  usually  only  lost  their 
floors  and  roofs :  the  light  dry  wood  burned  so 
quickly  that  in  most  cases  the  fire  was  out  before 
the  walls  fell  in.     Of  course  the  smallness  of  the 


64  THINGS   SEEN 

loss  makes  no  difference  in  the  guilt — if  we  are  to 
speak  in  ridiculous  exaggerations — of  the  Turkish 
army.  It  is  more  pertinent  to  this  point  that,  except 
apparently  Kazaklar,  no  single  village  that  I  know 
of  suffered  by  fire  except  during  or  immediately 
after  a  fight.  Turkish  troops  passed  through  and 
halted  at  dozens  of  villages  in  Thessaly,  and  left 
everything  standing.  Without  multiplying  outland- 
ish names,  there  are  eight  along  the  road  from 
Larissa  to  Velestino  which  gave  no  sign  of  having 
been  touched  as  late  as  May  9th.  Even  what  fires 
there  were  were  partly  accidental :  a  soldier  cooked 
his  coffee  near  a  dry  thorn-hedge,  and  when  he 
went  away  the  blazing  hedge  spread  to  the  nearest 
roof.  Perhaps  all  this  is  enough  to  show  that  the 
accusations  of  incendiarism  have  been  grossly,  as 
bad  as  wilfully,  overstated.  A  German  corres- 
pondent who  had  been  through  the  Franco-German 
war  told  me  that  the  Turks  burned  beyond  com- 
parison less  than  the  Germans. 

As  for  looting,  there  was  next  to  none  of  it,  for 
the  very  sufficient  reason  that  there  was  next  to 
nothing  to  loot.  People  talk  vaguely  of  living  on 
the  enemy's  country ;  but  when  there  is  nothing  left 
in  the  enemy's  country  except  green  corn  and 
young  vines  it  is  not  easy,  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  to  see  how  it  is  to  be  done.  A  good  deal 
of  the  corn  was  cut  for  fodder,  a  very  few  cattle 
and  sheep  were  found  and  eaten,  and  likewise  a 
few  fowls.  I  presume  the  owners  were  not  paid  for 
this,  as  the  owners  had  disappeared.    But  how  such 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY        65 

looting  as  this  is  to  be  prevented  in  war-time  those 
who  cry  out  against  pillage  have  not  explained. 
You  might  as  well  expect  cavalry  to  ''ware  wheat" 
in  a  charge.  Of  loot,  other  than  food,  there  was 
hardly  any  on  the  market  at  all.  I  looted  a  reel  of 
cotton  myself  in  Pharsala,  but  I  saw  nothing  more 
valuable  about  the  place.  The  only  two  towns 
where  there  was  any  possibility  of  plunder  were 
Larissa  and  Volo,  and  both  were  practically  un- 
touched. "Practically  untouched,"  of  course,  does 
not  mean  that  no  soldier  took  what  was  not  his. 
Every  soldier,  I  do  not  doubt,  was  as  anxious  to 
pick  up  something  worth  a  few  piastres  as  any 
other  soldier  of  any  other  nation  would  have  been 
in  the  like  case.  I  do  not  say  that  nothing  was 
stolen ;  on  the  contrary,  at  Larissa  the  number  of 
things  that  disappeared  would  probably  mount  up 
to  a  good  deal.  Rifles  and  bayonets,  fuse-boxes, 
saddles,  and  camp-beds,  of  course,  do  not  count: 
they  were  military  stores ;  and  if  anybody  has  a 
right  to  complain  that  they  sometimes  came  into 
the  hands  of  European  correspondents,  it  is  the 
Sultan.  I  do  not  say  there  were  not  other  things 
looted.  But  I  do  say,  first,  that  the  looting  was 
relatively  very  little  in  Larissa,  and  in  Volo,  so  far 
as  I  saw  on  the  day  of  capture,  none  at  all ;  and, 
second,  that  every  possible  effort  was  made  to 
check  what  looting  there  was.  For  the  first  point, 
I  suppose  there  were  jewellers'  shops,  curiosity 
shops,  and  the  like,  in  Larissa ;  there  must  have 
been  jewels  and  other  easily  concealed,  easily  port- 


66  THINGS   SEEN 

able  objects  of  some  value  in  the  possession  of  in- 
habitants of  the  town.  And  I  am  quite  confident 
that  if  any  such  had  been  on  the  market  my  most 
efiticient  dragoman  would  have  known  it,  and  sug- 
gested a  deal.  But  there  was  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  sort  for  sale,  with  the  one  exception  of  a 
cheap  reliquary,  probably  dropped  by  its  owner. 
Very  likely  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Larissa  took 
their  valuables  away  with  them ;  indeed  I  saw  sev- 
eral families  bringing  them  back  again.  But  I  also 
chanced  to  go  into  one  or  two  houses  which  had 
been  left  almost  untouched  by  the  owners,  and  re- 
mained so.  In  any  case,  wherever  the  wealth  of 
Larissa  went,  it  was  not  into  the  pockets  of  the 
Turks. 

When  the  Turks  entered  the  town  they  placed 
sentinels  at  every  corner,  and  at  all  the  houses 
that  looked  likely  to  invite  plunder.  Many  of  the 
principal  shops  had  already  been  ripped  open  and 
gutted  by  the  Greek  irregulars  and  liberated  con- 
victs, whose  cartridge-cases  littered  the  streets. 
Two  or  three  days  afterwards  a  swarm  of  Albanian 
irregulars  arrived,  and  commenced  operations  by 
smashing  in  and  clearing  out  some  shops  in  the 
main  streets.  This  ought  to  have  been  foreseen, 
no  doubt,  but  at  least  the  authorities  guarded 
against  a  repetition  of  it:  while  the  Amauts  were 
in  the  town  there  was  a  sentinel  to  every  shop. 
It  was  not  possible  to  place  a  sentinel  at  every 
house  in  the  town,  and  I  daresay  a  good  many 
were  broken  into,  if  you  can  use  the  word  of  houses 


WHAT    HAPPENED    IN    THESSALY        67 

left  wide  open  inviting  entry.  But  I  think  any 
fair  judge  who  saw  the  Turkish  officers  will  admit 
that  they  did  their  best  to  stop  such  things.  Of- 
fenders were  never  let  go  unpunished :  several  were 
imprisoned,  some  were  flogged,  more  were  inform- 
ally slashed  across  the  face  with  riding-whips  after 
the  Turkish  manner.  Seyfoullah  Pasha,  who  was 
Governor,  organised  a  civil  police  to  help  keep 
order,  out  of  the  Mussulman,  Jewish,  and  Christian 
inhabitants.  I  regret  to  say  that  one  of  the  first 
consequences  was  that  a  Christian  was  discovered 
by  the  Governor  himself  in  the  attempt  to  take  up 
a  fellow-Christian's  bed  and  walk.  It  was  not  the 
best  testimony  to  the  prudence  of  the  mixed  gen- 
darmery  system,  but  I  can  bear  personal  witness 
to  the  energy  with  which  Seyfoullah  thrashed  the 
mixed  gendarme.  Night  and  day  this  excellent 
officer  was  always  about  the  streets,  and  there  were 
others  hardly  less  energetic.  In  a  word,  the  will  to 
loot — without  violence — was  present  with  the  Turk, 
as  with  all  soldiers  :  it  was  repressed  by  the  officers, 
not  entirely,  but  probably  with  as  much  success  as 
has  ever  been  seen  with  any  conquering  army  in 
the  world. 

Beyond  such  m.ilitary  peccadilloes  as  a  little  burn- 
ing and  loot,  the  Turks  committed  no  outrage  worth 
mentioning  at  all.  I  saw  one  dead  peasant,  and 
heard  of  one  other.  I  cannot  say  that  these  were 
all  that  died :  no  one  man  could  see  everything  that 
was  done.  But  when  a  man  goes  through  a  cam- 
paign, wandering  about  pretty  much  as  he  likes. 


68  THINGS   SEEN 

he  cat!  be  sure  that  if  there  had  been  much  killing 
of  peasants  he  would  have  seen  more  of  it.  More- 
over, it  must  be  remembered  that  the  Greek  Gov- 
ernment had  armed  large  numbers  of  peasants,  who 
followed  their  army  as  irregulars :  it  is  possible 
that  the  dead  men  had  been  playing  the  franc-tircur. 
I  saw  several  disarmed  peasants  among  the  prison- 
ers ;  and  they  were  not  shot,  when  taken,  as  they 
would  have  been  in  the  West,  but  of  course  they 
would  have  been  killed  if  they  were  encountered 
under  arms.  I  never  saw  a  Turkish  soldier  strike 
or  ill-use  a  Greek  in  town  or  country.  As  for  the 
ravishings  and  tortures  of  which  we  hear  so  much 
when  there  are  no  Europeans  to  corroborate  or 
deny  them,  I  saw  absolutely  no  trace  of  such.  There 
were  not  many  women  left  in  the  Greek  villages, 
but  there  were  some ;  there  were  also  Jewish  women 
in  Larissa,  and  droves  of  Gipsies  hung  round  the 
army  on  its  march.  I  heard  of  no  incivility  offered 
to  any  of  these.  Again,  this  does  not  prove  that 
there  was  no  incivility ;  but  I  think  it  does  prove 
that  there  cannot  have  been  much. 

Taking  it  all  together,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt 
very  much  whether  any  army  in  an  enemy's  country 
ever  came  nearer  to  irreproachability  of  discipline 
than  the  Turks  in  Thessaly.  Judged  by  the  laws 
of  war  set  up  by  the  most  civilised  nations  in  time 
of  peace,  it  is  probable  that  a  pretty  long  list  of 
misdemeanours  might  be  made  out  against  them. 
But  then  those  laws  were  never  rigidly  observed 
by  any  army  that  I  ever  heard  of.     For  the  most 


WHAT   HAPPENED    IN   THESSALY        69 

part  the  breaches  of  them  are  tacitly  and  very  prop- 
erly condoned  by  those  who  inform  the  stay-at- 
home  public  as  to  the  progress  of  wars.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  informing  the  public  that 
men  who  are  patterns  of  virtue  and  propriety  in 
peace,  tend  towards  raw  savagery  in  war ;  the  public 
accordingly  is  not  informed.  As  long  as  war  lasts 
men  will  be  different  in  war  from  their  other  selves 
in  peace.  This  may  not  be  to  war's  credit ;  but 
there  are  quite  enough  excellent  people  working 
ineffectively  for  the  abolition  of  war  already  to 
make  it  unnecessary  to  insist  on  this  additional 
argument.  Unless  it  had  been  Turks  who  were 
engaged  in  this  late  campaign,  we  should  not  have 
heard  a  word  of  excesses.  Because  they  were 
Turks  there  seems  to  have  grown  up  a  new  theory 
concerning  this  war — ^to  wit,  that  a  nation  which 
engages  in  war  and  is  beaten  has  a  right  to  com- 
plain when  it  suffers  any  inconvenience  that  is  not 
with  it  in  time  of  peace.  How  universal  still  is  the 
reign  of  cant  in  this  country  may  be  judged  from 
some  of  the  arguments  of  those  who  hold  this  new- 
fangled theory.  One  writer  speaks  of  "looting" 
Greek  cartridges  and  cannon.  Others  cry  out  be- 
cause the  Greeks  are  like  to  lose  the  harvest  of 
Thessaly,  as  if  war  were  a  kind  of  hunt  expected  to 
bear  in  mind  the  interests  of  the  farmer.  We  shall 
next  hear  of  war  as  a  football-match,  with  umpires 
to  blow  a  whistle  if  anybody  steals  an  egg,  and 
award  the  other  side  a  penalty  cannon-shot.  One 
authority  has  already  gone  so   far  as  to  find  it 


70  THINGS   SEEN 

merest  justice  that  the  pecuniary  losses  of  the 
Greeks  should  be  put  on  the  other  side  against  the 
war  indemnity.  That  the  conquerors  should  be 
presented  with  the  bill  of  the  conquered — thereby 
almost  inevitably  finding  a  heavy  balance  against 
themselves — is  indeed  a  new  view  of  the  ethics  of 
war,  and  it  is  small  wonder  that  the  Greeks  should 
loot  their  own  towns  and  burn  their  own  villages 
if  it  is  to  be  the  law  of  Europe. 

To  sum  up  this  rambling  commentary  on  what 
happened  in  Thessaly,  it  comes  to  little  enough. 
It  has  not  provided  the  world  with  any  unexpected 
truths  either  about  the  art  of  war  or  about  the 
Eastern  question.  A  badly  led  army  which  will 
stand  up  to  be  shot  at  beats  a  badly  led  army  which 
will  not:  that  we  could  have  predicted.  The  Turk- 
ish army  is  not  a  negligible  quantity,  which  nobody 
not  utterly  ignorant  and  crack-brained  ever  thought 
it  was ;  yet  neither  is  it  that  prodigy  of  modern 
science  and  organisation  which  some  people  rashly 
took  it  for  on  the  strength  of  its  easy  successes. 
The  Turk  is  very  much  Vv^hat  he  was  before — a  rude, 
strong,  good-humoured,  unrefined,  half-barbarian 
man,  who  can  endure,  and  fight,  and  obey  orders. 
The  Greek  is  what  he  was — a  dishonest,  intelligent, 
chicken-hearted  talker,  whom  nothing  apparently 
will  deprive  of  Britain's  sympathy  as  long  as  he 
quotes  Byron  and  lives  in  the  land  of  Alcibiades. 
And  neither  Turk  nor  Greek  can  speak  the  truth ; 
which  makes  it  the  more  deplorable  that  so  few 
Europeans  are  found  to  speak  the  truth  about 
them. 


THE   MONOTYPE.i 

It  is  so  complete  and  provident,  foreseeing  every 
difficulty  and  surmounting  it,  aware  of  every  ad- 
vantage and  seizing  it,  that  you  can  hardly  help 
feeling  it  to  be  a  portent,  inexplicable,  born  out  of 
season,  without  father  or  mother,  or  beginning  of 
days. 

Yet,  though  its  inventor  is  a  statistician,  who 
came  upon  it  not  through  the  study  of  printing, 
but  in  the  devising  of  calculating  machines,  the 
monotype,  like  every  seeming  prodigy,  is  the  issue 
of  a  long  development,  the  offspring  of  a  hundred 
ancestors.  Revolution  is  the  child  of  evolution  in 
printing  as  everywhere  else. 

The  machine  looks  modest,  and,  to  anybody 
capable  of  understanding  machines,  very  simple. 
It  stands  perhaps  4  feet  high,  it  is  3  feet  8  inches 
long  by  3  feet  broad,  and  it  weighs  only  900  lbs. 
It  requires  very  little  power  to  drive  it.  The  buzz 
of  its  driving-belt  and  the  click,  click  of  the  work 
it  is  doing  hardly  makes  itself  heard  at  your  ear 
above  the  clatter  of  Leadenhall  Street.  Altogether 
it  is  one  of  the  least  ostentatious  machines  tliat 
ever  made  a  revolution.  But  if  you  look  at  it  closer 
and  realise  what  it  is  doing,  that  machine  is  one  of 
the  greatest  marvels  of  all  the  marvelous  history  of 

'New  Review,  November,  1897, 
71 


72  THINGS   SEEN 

machinery,  the  crown  of  over  five  centuries'  devel- 
opment in  the  most  vital  of  all  civilising  arts.  The 
machine  is  casting  and  setting  type  all  by  itself — 
setting  it,  too,  more  regularly,  more  clearly,  more 
cheaply,  and  more  untiringly  than  written  words 
have  ever  been  set  before. 

CHck,  click,  click;  and  with  each  click  a  fire- 
new,  shining  letter  slides  out  into  its  place  in  a 
line  of  print.  Click,  click,  click,  till  a  line  is  finished ; 
the  line  slides  up  into  its  place  in  a  column,  and  the 
machine,  before  you  have  finished  watching  the  line 
fall  in,  has  pushed  out  nearly  half  the  next.  No- 
body is  touching  it — nobody  telling  it  what  to  say. 
It  just  goes  on  clicking  out  words  and  words, 
thoughts  and  thoughts.  It  is  the  most  human  of  all 
machines  and  the  most  inhuman.  It  is  human  in 
its  seemingly  self-suggested  intelligence,  inhuman 
in  its  deliberate  yet  unresting  precision.  Unprompt- 
ed and  unchecked,  it  might  be  clicking  out  life- 
giving  truth  or  devilish  corruption,  and  clicking  it 
out  forever. 

Its  full  name  is  the  Lanston  monotype  machine ; 
its  familiars  call  it  briefly  the  monotype.  It  is  al- 
most a  relief — so  much  you  are  hypnotised  by  the 
apparent  spontaneity  of  the  thing — to  learn  that  it 
is  not  saying  just  what  it  likes ;  that  it  is,  after  all, 
like  other  machines,  man's  servant.  There  is  a 
paper  roll  being  unwound  and  re-wound  on  the 
top  of  it,  punched  with  holes  in  various  positions 
like  the  drum  of  a  musical  box,  which  is  telling  it 
what  to  say.    There  is  a  kind  of  tank  where  from 


THE    MONOTYPE  73 

time  to  time  it  must  be  fed  with  metal  to  cast  its 
types  from.  But  within  these  limitations  its  activity 
is  only  bounded  by  the  time  required  for  each  type 
to  cool ;  give  it  words  to  set  and  metal  to  set  them 
with,  and  it  will  go  on  unaided  till  you  like  to 
stop  it. 

To  get  a  vague  idea  of  its  working  you  must 
begin  with  the  perforated  roll.  There  is  a  keen- 
faced,  clean-shaven  young  man  in  spectacles  work- 
ing what  appears  to  be  a  typewriter  in  one  corner 
of  the  room :  that  is  the  captain  of  the  setting  ma- 
chine, and  the  man  is  the  captain  of  that.  The  two 
parts  make  really  one  machine,  and  yet  the  one  is 
perfectly  independent  in  place  or  time  of  the  other. 

The  machine's  master  begins  by  setting  an  index : 
the  index  fixes  the  length  of  the  line  required.  Then 
he  begins  playing  on  the  keys  as  with  a  typewriter ; 
only  each  key,  instead  of  writing  a  letter,  punches 
two  round  holes  in  the  roll.  So  he  taps  letter  after 
letter  till  he  has  punched  a  word ;  then  he  taps  a 
space  and  on  to  the  next  word.  Presently,  when 
he  is  coming  to  the  end  of  a  line,  a  bell  rings.  You 
notice  a  semi-circular  dial,  just  above  the  bank  of 
keys,  with  a  pointer  traveling  across  it.  The  bell 
means  this  :  the  line  has  now  progressed  so  far  that 
another  syllable  would  fill  it  too  full.  You  must 
now  "justify,"  as  printers  call  it — that  is,  equalise 
the  space  between  the  words  of  the  line.  The  mono- 
type's method  of  doing  this  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  its  beauties.  There  is  a  registering 
scale  which  has  been  following  all  the  movements 


74  THINGS   SEEN 

of  the  operator:    it  now  reveals  on  the  dial,  first, 
how  much   space   is  over,  to  be  divided   equally 
among  the  spaces  between  the  words ;  and  second, 
the  number  of  spaces  between  the  words  among 
which  the  residuary  space  is  to  be  divided.     Say 
there  is  one-tenth  of  an  inch  over  and  there  are 
ten  spaces :    an  addition  of  one-hundredth  of  an 
inch  to  each  will  justify  the  line.    To  do  such  a 
thing  by  hand  means  time  and  distraction  of  atten- 
tion, and  probably  inaccuracy  after  all ;  to  the  mon- 
otype it  is  child's  play.    The  operator  simply  taps 
a  key  which  punches  yet  another  hole  in  the  ribbon. 
When  the  ribbon  comes  to  control  the  setting  ma- 
chine, that  hole  ensures  that  the  word-spaces  shall 
be  just  one-hundredth  above  normal  size,  and  the 
line  will  be  justified  with  absolute  mathematical 
exactness.     When  the  ribbon  is  punched  full  it  is 
lifted  ofif  the  key-board  and  fixed  on  to  the  casting 
and  setting  machine.     The  holes  in  it  correspond 
mathematically  with  a  set  of  dies  comprising  all 
the  characters  and  symbols  used  in  type-setting. 
These  are  carried  in  a  case  mounted  on  a  com- 
pound slide,  the  parts  of  which  move  at  right  angles. 
Air  is  shot  through  these  holes  by  a  pneumatic 
tube,  and  the  force  brings  the  die  required  under 
a  jet  of  molten  metal.    The  metal  is  forced  into  the 
mould,  the  type  is  cast  and  shot  out  into  the  galley. 
The  whole  thing  comes  out  hind  part  before  and 
upside  down ;    the  justifying  holes  at  the  ends  of 
each  line  are  thus  the  first  to  come  under  the  obser- 
vation of  the  machine,  which  casts  all  the  space- 


THE    MONOTYPE  75 

types  of  the  lines  accordingly.  If  there  is  a  mistake 
as  to  the  length  of  the  line,  the  monotype  refuses. 
It  stops  dead ;  the  minder  puts  the  error  right,  and 
the  sagacious  creature  starts  on  again.  When  the 
whole  galley  is  set,  a  proof  is  pulled  and  corrected 
in  the  ordinary  way ;  each  type  is  an  individual, 
so  there  is  no  need  of  re-casting.  When  the  type 
is  done  with  it  can  either  be  retained  for  use,  being 
every  bit  as  good  as  foundry  type,  or  melted  up  and 
used  over  again.  By  reason  of  its  facilities  for 
changing  the  measure  of  lines,  and  its  accuracy  of 
justification,  the  monotype  can  set  tabular  matter 
and  over-run  illustrations  better  than  this  can  be 
done  by  hand.  It  is  the  only  machine  which  can 
make  full  use  of  capitals  and  italics  as  supplied  in  a 
full  fount  of  type.  Other  machines  can  produce 
but  100  characters  with  a  hundred  different  move- 
ments :  it  can  produce  225  with  thirty.  To  cut 
technicalities,  the  monotype  can  do  everything  that 
printing  can  ask.  It  is  the  child  of  evolution.  Since 
very  early  in  the  century  machinery  has  fought  the 
compositor ;  and  though  the  man  has  kept  his  head 
up  hitherto,  like  the  man  he  is,  it  was  certain  that  in 
the  end  he  must  go  down.  Not  down  altogether, 
of  course,  but  down  as  a  hand-compositor :  a  man's 
a  man,  and  will  earn  his  bread  whether  he  trims 
sails  or  stokes  furnaces,  whether  he  picks  types  out 
of  a  box  into  a  stick  or  sits  on  a  seat  and  hits  keys. 
But  the  earliest  efforts  of  machinery  left  the  com- 
positor by  hand  still  easy  master  of  the  situation. 
There  have  been    two    main    families  of  these, 


y6  THINGS   SEEN 

which  may  conveniently  be  styled  the  spout  kind 
and  the  wheel  kind.  The  original  begetter  of  the 
first,  Dr.  Church,  was  an  American,  like  Mr.  Lan- 
ston  to-day ;  the  inventors  who  brought  it  into  prac- 
tice, Young  and  Delcambre,  were,  again  like  him, 
not  professional  printers.  Their  machine,  once  more 
like  its  triumphant  descendant  of  to-day,  started 
with  a  key-board ;  the  types  were  lying  in  grooves 
according  to  their  kinds,  and  a  touch  on  the  key 
released  the  first  in  the  groove.  The  letters,  suc- 
cessively released,  were  conducted  through  devious 
passages,  which  finally  all  united  in  the  spout. 
Thence  they  issued  in  an  endless  line;  a  second 
operator  sat  at  the  end  of  the  spout  to  cut  them 
up  into  lengths  as  they  emerged,  and  justify  the 
lines  so  made.  It  was  magnificent,  but  it  did  not 
work.  Types  are  more  unruly  than  those  who 
know  them  only  as  printed  letters  usually  conceive. 
An  in  and  an  i,  for  instance  are  of  very  different 
sizes  and  very  different  weights.  The  spout  had 
to  be  broad  enough  for  m,  and  so  i  slewed  round 
and  stuck  in  the  middle,  and  had  to  be  pried  out 
with  a  bodkin ;  meanwhile,  portly  in  was  emerging 
with  a  thud  into  the  receiver  and  ricochetting  into 
the  inane.  Sometimes  the  operator  at  the  key- 
board operated  too  fast,  and  then  while  m  and  i 
were  struggling  through  their  tunnels,  g  came 
bounding  along  and  slipped  in  at  the  junction  be- 
fore them.  If  the  type  was  sticky  or  the  passages 
damp  all  these  things  became  worse.    So  that  the 


THE    MONOTYPE  'J'J 

Spout  type  of  machine,  though  not  unused,  never 
conquered  the  human  hand. 

The  wheel  type  was  born  in  1858,  its  inventor 
being  a  journalist,  Dr.  Mackie.  In  this  family  the 
types  were  arranged  round  a  wheel — whether  a  disc 
or  a  grooved  revolving  pillar — which  is  spun  round 
and  arranged  so  that  the  right  type  stops  opposite 
the  receiver  and  shdes  in.  Despite  the  irrelevant 
suggestions  of  Monte  Carlo  and  the  Buddhist  pray- 
ing-machine, this  was  a  much  faster  and  more 
practical  kind  of  machine  than  the  other.  But  even 
this  found  difficulties  in  working.  It  wore  away 
the  feet  of  the  type  in  the  grooves,  so  that  they 
went  "off  their  feet,"  as  the  phrase  is,  and  you  can- 
not take  a  type's  shoes  ofif  and  turn  it  out  to  grass. 
A  type  is  not  a  butterfly  either ;  but  it  can  be  broken 
on  a  wheel,  and  often  is,  in  this  kind  of  machine. 
The  wheel  machine,  from  these  and  other  causes, 
was  very  expensive,  and  the  human  hand  remained 
undismayed. 

It  was  a  different  matter  when  the  linotype  ar- 
rived. This  machine  may  be  said  to  mark  the 
transition  from  old  to  new,  for  it  gave  up  the  strug- 
gle with  insubordinate,  jamming,  breaking  types, 
and  cast  its  own  type  as  it  went  along.  The  oper- 
ator taps  his  key,  and  the  tap  releases  a  die  and 
brings  it  into  place.  The  line  when  set  is  justified 
by  driving  up  widening  steel  wedges  between  the 
words.  The  molten  metal  is  injected  into  the  line 
of  dies,  forming  a  bar  of  type  representing  the  line. 
This  bar  must  be  trimmed,  and  then  it  is  ready  to 


78  THINGS   SEEN 

take  its  place  in  the  galley.  The  dies  are  mechan- 
ically conveyed  back  to  their  own  place.  This 
machine  was  plainly  a  very  great- advance.  It  saved 
the  labour  involved  in  justification  and  the  distribu- 
tion of  types,  after  being  used,  into  their  proper 
cases  ready  for  use  again.  It  saved  cost  of  type, 
wear  and  tear  of  plant,  and  especially  floor  space. 
Its  victory  was  neither  immediate  nor  complete,  for 
reasons  which  will  appear  in  a  moment;  but,  for 
the  first  time,  it  estabhshed  an  advantage  for  the 
machine  over  the  hand. 

Thus  was  the  way  prepared  for  the  crowning 
achievement  of  the  monotype.  If  it  appears  in- 
ferior in  speed  to  the  lintoype  because  it  involves 
the  separate  operations  w^ith  the  key-board  and  the 
casting-and-setting  machine,  it  takes  its  revenge  in 
the  quality  of  the  printing,  in  the  range  of  its  char- 
acters, in  economy,  and  in  convenience.  The  types 
are  clean  cut  and  deep  in  the  shoulder,  as  it  is 
called,  so  that  they  offer  the  promise  of  the  very 
clearest  and  finest  impression.  The  dies,  being 
held  in  rows  in  a  square  case,  require  mechanical 
movements  equal  to  only  double  the  square  root 
of  their  total  number.  If  there  are  225  characters 
" — fifteen  rows  of  fifteen  apiece — there  are  fifteen 
horizontal  and  fifteen  perpendicular  movements  to 
bring  the  dies  under  the  jet  of  metal,  or  thirty  in  all. 
So  with  forty  movements  you  could  use  400  charac- 
ters; with  fifty,  625.  The  linotype  needs  a  separ- 
ate mechanical  movement  for  each  character:  this 
necessarily   limits  the  number  of  characters   em- 


THE    MONOTYPE  79 

ployed,  and  therewith — as,  for  Instance,  by  the  ex- 
ckision  of  italics — the  range  and  attractiveness  of 
the  printing.  In  point  of  economy  the  monotype 
requires  less  labour  than  any  other  machine.  Eight 
expert  key-board  operators  can  punch  rolls  enough 
to  keep  ten  machines  going ;  one  man  can  feed  and 
mind  ten.  That  means  nine  men  to  ten  complete 
machines — a  complete  machine  run  by  a  decimal 
fraction  of  a  man!  With  this  and  other  economies 
the  cost  of  production  works  out  roughly  at  some- 
thing like  one-quarter  of  that  of  hand-work.  But 
perhaps  the  most  attractive  vista  of  possibility  be- 
fore the  monotype  is  opened  by  the  separability  of 
its  parts.  Small  printers  can  combine  in  the  pur- 
chase and  upkeeping  of  a  casting  machine,  each 
having  his  own  key-board  and  sending  its  rolls  to 
the  central  depot  to  be  cast  at  leisure.  This  same 
roll  can  be  stored  away  and  kept  to  infinity. 

It  is  virtually  printed  matter,  and  ready  to  go  on 
the  machine  and  come  out  in  type  at  any  moment. 
With  other  methods,  whether  linotype,  wheel, 
spout,  or  hand,  if  you  want  to  preserve  matter — 
say  for  the  second  edition  of  a  book — you  must 
store  away  the  type  itself,  taking  up  space  for  which 
you  must  pay  rent,  and  spending  money  on  stereo- 
type plates  on  which  you  lose  the  interest.  With 
the  monotype  you  just  put  away  the  rolls  on  a 
shelf.  When  you  want  to  reprint  you  take  down 
the  rolls,  put  them  on  the  machines,  leave  a 
man  sitting  up  to  feed  them,  and  go  to  bed ;  when 
you  wake  up  the  monotype  has  done  the  rest. 


8o  THINGS   SEEN 

In  this  light  the  apparent  slowness  involved  in 
the  separate  parts  of  the  monotype  turns  out  a  real 
gain  in  speed.  All  other  setting  machines  are 
limited  in  their  capacity  by  the  endurance  of  their 
human  operators.  Imagine  a  press  of  work :  when 
your  linotypists  are  tired  out  you  must  let  your 
machine  stand  idle  while  they  sleep;  your  mono- 
typists  in  the  meantime,  with  their  whole  attention 
fixed  on  the  mental  processes  of  the  key-board, 
with  no  distraction  to  the  mechanical  processes  of 
the  casting,  may  be  presumed  to  have  held  out 
longer,  at  higher  pressure,  to  have  punched  more 
than  the  other  men  have  linotyped.  When  they  go 
home  to  bed  the  casting  machine  will  click  serenely 
on  all  night ;  it  wants  no  food  but  copy  and  metal, 
and  no  sleep  at  all. 

And  now  for  the  most  wonderful  dream  of  all. 
No  compositor  at  all,  but  every  author  his  own 
printer!  If  the  divine  fire  can  be  struck  out  on 
the  keys  of  a  typewriter,  why  not  on  the  keys  of 
a  monotype?  The  sage  of  the  future  will  unlade 
his  wisdom  in  the  form  of  little  round  holes  in  a 
brown-paper  roll.  He  will  send  down  the  roll  to 
his  editor  or  publisher :  it  will  be  put  on  the 
machine,  and  the  machine  will  turn  it  out  in  print 
without  the  touch  of  any  hand  but  his  own.  If  this 
can  be,  our  valued  friend  the  compositor  turns  out 
only  a  superfluous  middleman  after  all.  His  profit 
must  be  cut  ofif:  he  must  go.  After  all,  in  this 
literary  age,  it  is  increasingly  easy  for  him  to  be- 
come a  popular  author — a  profession   sometimes 


THE    MONOTYPE  8i 

cleaner  than  his  present  one,  and  very  often  better 
paid. 

Still,  there  will  always  remain  one  place  for  the 
compositor:  he  will  make  the  author's  corrections 
in  the  columns  which  the  monotype  has  set  up. 
The  linotype  abolishes  the  cost  of  corrections  by 
abolishing  the  corrections  themselves,  and  there- 
with incidentally  abolishing  literature  also.  In 
theory,  correction  is  possible  with  it :  it  sets  its  type 
in  solid  lines,  and  if  you  want  to  add  or  subtract 
a  comma,  the  whole  line  must  be  set  over  again. 
In  practice,  the  re-setting  and  re-casting  of  the 
whole  line  means  too  much  trouble  and  time  and 
expense;  therefore  the  comma  is  not  corrected,  and 
bad  work  is  the  result.  The  reader  is  annoyed  or 
confused  or  misled  by  mistakes,  or  else  he  is  taught 
to  believe  that  in  the  art  of  writing  trifles  don't 
matter.  The  writer  is  forced  to  acquiesce  in  the 
same  heresy.  He  must  not  revise  and  correct,  and 
in  time,  by  dint  of  seeing  many  scandalous  blun- 
ders in  his  work,  learns  to  accept  blunders  in  spell- 
ing, in  grammar,  in  style,  as  a  necessary  condition 
of  literature — of  which  disease  literature  must 
eventually  die. 

You  who  have  seen  your  noblest  sentiments, 
your  most  resounding  phrases,  pass  under  the  har- 
row of  the  linotype  will  confess  that  this  is  no  ex- 
aggeration. The  linotype  made  for  bad  writing: 
the  monotype,  giving  out  work  as  easy  of  correc- 
tion as  hand-set  types,  if  it  docs  not  make  directly 
for  good  writing,  at  least  it  does  not  make  against 


S2  THINGS    SEEN 

it.  It  does  affirmatively  make  for  good  printing. 
In  the  meantime,  it  is  permitted  to  welcome  a  ma- 
chine which,  whilst,  like  most  of  its  breed,  it  makes 
life  swifter  and  more  exciting,  does  not,  like  many, 
leave  it  uglier  than  it  found  it. 


MR.    BALFOUR'S    PHILOSOPHY.^ 

All  attempt  to  estimate  the  philosophical  value  of 
such  a  book  as  Mr.  Balfour's  'Foundations  of  Be- 
lief in  the  pages  of  a  finite  magazine  is  beset  by 
at  least  one  unhappy  difficulty.  Dissent  from  its 
conclusions  has  the  show  of  misappreciation  of  its 
merits.  Let  it  be  insisted  at  once,  therefore,  that 
though  to  many  men  the  final  conclusions  of  this 
treatise  will  be  unsatisfying,  and  some  of  its  tribu- 
tary arguments  unconvincing,  there  is  no  man  that 
can  afiford  to  disdain  it.  No  truth  is  tiie  v.'hole 
truth,  and  no  sincere  quest  after  truth  can  end  in 
total  disappointment.  It  is  a  commonplace  that 
man  learns  most  from  those  with  whom  he  least 
agrees,  and  this  is  especially  so  with  a  thinker  so 
keenly  sensitive  to  the  philosophic  atmosphere  of 
the  hour  as  Mr.  Balfour.  Je  mcprisc  Locke,  said 
Schelling ;  but  Locke  had  been  long  enough  in  his 
coffin  to  justify  the  liberty.  Nowadays  we  are  all 
pretty  unanimous  in  misprizing  Schelling;  but  Mr. 
Balfour  is  either  to  be  hailed  as  a  saviour  or  ap- 
proached warily  as  a  dangerous  if  illuminative 
heretic.  The  enemy  he  attacks  is  the  established 
philosophic  church  of  the  day :  it  has  been  attacked, 
and  indeed  overthrown,  in  its  earlier  incarnations, 
but  the  bare  fact   of  its  resuscitation  points  the 

^New  Review,  March,  1895. 
83 


84  THINGS   SEEN 

necessity  of  a  new  onslaught.  Naturalism — there 
is  no  need  to  depart  from  Mr.  Balfour's  own  term; 
it  passes  variously  under  the  aliases  of  Positivism 
and  Agnosticism,  and  may  most  handily  be  de- 
scribed as  the  creed  of  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer — fights 
to-day  with  the  new  weapon  of  Evolution ;  it  was 
necessary  that  the  weapon  should  be  turned  against 
it.  This  Mr.  Balfour  has  done  with  an  unsparing 
trenchancy,  a  dazzling  deftness  of  dialectical  fence, 
a  subtlety  of  distinction,  and  a  power  of  epigram 
and  of  eloquence  far  surpassing  any  of  its  original 
masters.  He  has  hewn  Naturalism  asunder  and 
riddled  it  to  shreds,  and  overthrown  it  and  trampled 
on  it;  and  if  he  has  not  slain  it  outright,  the  one 
reason  is  that  its  professors  are  not  open  to  phil- 
osophic conviction.  For,  indeed,  the  creed  was 
never  at  any  time  a  philosophy,  nor  expounded  by 
philosophers.  Its  gospellers  are  either,  like  Pro- 
fessor Huxley,  investigators  of  science  who  have 
strayed  beyond  their  province,  or  anti-theological 
gladiators  like  Mr.  Frederick  Harrison,  or  else,  like 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  they  have  mistaken  gener- 
alisations in  natural  science  for  the  nearest  human 
possibilities  of  absolute  truth.  Such  as  Naturalism 
was,  Mr.  Balfour  leaves  it  w^ithout  a  rag  to  cover 
its  speculative  nakedness.  Starting  out  to  explain 
the  world  without  any  ultimate  principle  of  person- 
ality, it  cannot  give  a  coherent  account  of  one 
single  moment  of  human  experience.  Let  that  be 
said  once  for  all ;  let  any  one  to  whom  it  sounds 
treasonable  read  the  first  chapter  of  the  Second 


MR.    BALFOUR'S    PHILOSOPHY  85 

Part  once  for  all.  But  it  will  be  more  profitable  for 
the  estimate  of  the  book  as  a  whole  to  review  it 
rather  from  the  aspect  of  its  constructive  parts. 
"In  order  that  the  views  here  advocated,"  we  are 
told  at  the  outset,  "may  be  seen  in  the  highest  re- 
lief, it  is  convenient  to  exhibit  them  against  the 
background  of  some  other  and  contrasted  system 
of  thought."  Convenient  it  is,  no  doubt ;  but  is 
it  quite  fair  to  judge  the  stability  of  any  body  of 
conclusions  by  so  shaky  a  structure  as  Naturalism? 
Is  not  the  foil  too  dull  for  a  fair  valuation  of  the 
gem?  Will  it  not  be  better,  in  fine,  to  take  Mr. 
Balfour's  contentions  on  their  merits,  and  inspect 
them  against  the  background  of  any  more  plausible 
theory  that  their  analysis  may  afford? 

Logically,  Mr.  Balfour's  argument  begins — and, 
for  that  matter,  ends,  as  we  shall  see  later — in  "the 
ineffaceable  incongruity  between  the  origin  of  our 
beliefs,  in  so  far  as  these  can  be  revealed  to  us  by 
science,  and  the  beliefs  themselves."  But  for  this 
compendium  we  have  to  wait  until  the  last  chapter : 
the  actual  order  of  statement  is  rather  morpholog- 
ical than  logical :  it  proceeds  as  the  theory  v.'ould 
grow  up  in  the  theorist's  own  mind  rather  than  in 
conformity  with  the  conveniences  of  exposition. 
We  begin — not  altogether  without  reminiscence  of 
the  maxim,  "Abuse  plaintiff's  attorney" — with  an 
examination  of  the  Naturalistic  accounts  of  moral- 
ity,  aesthetics,  and  epistemology.  Viewing  these 
generically  he  finds  that,  while  the  evolutionary 
process  was  their  origin,  they  are  far  from  being  its 


86  THINGS    SEEN 

ends.  They  are  merely  accidents  in  its  course — 
backwaters  lying  off  the  perpetual  and  universal 
stream  of  the  world's  tendency.  Bastards  of  the 
struggle  for  life,  they  can  claim  no  dignity  of  their 
own  and  cherish  no  hope  of  perpetuity  when  once 
they  have  served  their  turn.  They  came  into  the 
world  as  devices,  subservient  to  the  continued  ex- 
istence of  man ;  they  will  go  out  of  it  in  the  inevit- 
able day  when  they  no  longer  minister  to  it.  Is 
this  a  creed  for  self-respecting  men?  asks  Mr.  Bal- 
four. Can  belief  and  feeling  continue  to  co-exist 
in  such  intolerable  antagonism?  Possibly  not; 
though  we  must  remember  such  jars  are  oftener 
composed  by  mutual  accommodation  than  by  the 
utter  destruction  of  one  or  other  of  the  jarring 
partners.  Yet,  spite  of  this,  the  argument  seems 
largely  irrelevant  and  doubtfully  valid.  It  is  not 
the  habit  of  the  philosopher  to  ask  first  whether 
this  or  that  is  pleasant  to  believe,  but  whether  it  is 
true.  And,  supposing  that  it  is  true,  is  it,  after 
all,  so  humiliating?  Amoeba  man  was  and  autom- 
aton he  shall  be,  says  Mr.  Balfour,  half-dead  to 
know  that  he  must  die.  But,  even  so,  it  is  our 
present,  not  our  past  or  future,  that  concerns  us. 
Mr.  Balfour  calls  it  humour  "to  prevent  us  assum- 
ing any  airs  of  superiority  over  other  and  more 
powerful  members  of  the  same  family  of  phe- 
nomena more  permanent  than  ourselves."  Yet 
surely  this  invocation  of  humour  is  but  a  back- 
handed argument.  Even  on  the  crassest  Natural- 
istic   view,    humour    is    a    more    ingenious    and 


MR.   BALFOUR'S   PHILOSOPHY  87 

complicated  conjunction  of  atoms  than  heat.  If 
the  phenomena  could  laugh  back  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent. But  while  I  can  laugh  at  them,  it  troubles 
me  little  that  in  a  few  billions  of  years  they  may 
perhaps  reduce  my  nth  grandson  to  the  same  un- 
laughing  molecules  as  themselves. 

Human  activities,  it  may  thus  be  argued,  have 
their  dignity  in  their  exercise,  as  determined  by 
such  rough  approximation  as  we  can  make, 
through  their  structure,  to  their  function  in  the 
world.  To  some  tempers,  at  least,  human  life,  with 
all  its  diverse  equipments  and  possibilities,  is  an 
end  in  itself.  If  there  is  anything  worthy  the  know- 
ing and  feeling  and  doing,  it  remains  worthy  so 
long  as  evolution  allows  man  to  remain  capable  of 
it.  And  is  our  doom,  after  all,  so  inevitable?  No 
doubt  all  that  makes  man  human  was  evolved,  in 
the  beginnings,  by  accident.  The  struggle  for  life 
first  made  us  moral  and  sesthetical  and  rational,  in 
order  that  we  might  be  better  adapted  animals. 
But  that  was  only  in  the  very  beginning.  Here,  as 
elsewhere,  Air.  Balfour  appears  to  confuse  the 
source  of  a  thing  with  the  thing  itself.  For  with 
the  dawn  of  consciousness  begins  a  fresh  struggle, 
whose  sphere  is  in  consciousness  alone — the  strug- 
gle of  ideals,  the  struggle  of  ideas.  This  is  grafted 
on  to  the  old  struggle  for  bare  life,  and  partly 
supersedes  it.  Just  as  the  struggle  first  entered 
into  the  world  with  organic  life,  this  new  mental 
struggle  began  with  consciousness.  Ideas  fight  for 
survival  in  the  mind  as  men  fight  for  survival  in 


88  THINGS    SEEN 

the  outer  world,  and  the  former  fight  reacts  on  the 
latter.  It  is  to  this  purely  intellectual  struggle  that 
we  owe,  and  shall  owe,  all  the  more  complex  de- 
velopments of  aesthetics,  thought,  and  morality. 
Whence  otherwise  comes  the  power  that  makes 
men  give  up  their  bread  for  their  art,  the  hope  of 
posterity  for  learning,  life  itself  for  their  country? 
The  primeval  will  to  live  becomes  modified  into  the 
will  to  live  in  such-and-such  a  way :  we  enrich  our 
conception  of  life  with  certain  minimum  require- 
ments of  virtue  and  refinement.  Artificial  selection 
begins  to  replace  natural.  As  years  go  on,  this 
struggle  within  the  mind  will  be  more  and  more. 
Amcebas  we  were,  it  is  true ;  but  on  this  view  we 
look  back  on  our  ancestry  with  the  juster  pride 
of  him  who  has  risen  from  below  rather  than  of 
him  who,  at  the  most,  has  not  fallen.  And  if  the 
phenomena  kill  us  off  in  the  end,  at  least  we  shall 
perish  in  the  bloom. 

The  Naturalist  is  hardly  in  a  position  to  put  for- 
ward such  a  suggestion  as  the  foregoing.  But  we 
have  given  up  the  Naturalist  and  are  trying  Mr. 
Balfour's  contentions  for  ourselves,  so  that  we  may 
derive  from  it  a  hope  that,  even  with  a  Naturalistic 
origin,  things  are  not  quite  so  desperate  with  us  as 
he  would  have  us  think.  He  now  leaves  this  quasi- 
ethical  region  and  proceeds  to  attack  Naturalism 
as  a  philosophy.  This  chapter  is  a  model  of  de- 
structive analysis,  brilliant  and  sound,  subtle  and 
perspicuous.  He  demonstrates  beyond  all  power 
of  refutation,  or  even  of  reply,  that  the  hypothesis 


MR.    BALFOUR'S    PHILOSOPHY  89 

of  Materialism — for  it  is  to  Materialism  that,  in  the 
limit,  Naturalism  always  comes — cannot  state 
coherently  the  simplest  facts  of  our  experience. 
This  part  of  the  book,  therefore,  we  might  pass  by 
but  for  one  discussion  which  may  come  in  usefully 
later.  In  his  analysis  of  Naturalism,  piling  refuta- 
tion on  refutation,  Mr.  Balfour  takes  occasion  to 
make  some  criticisms  of  sense-perception.  In  an 
immediate  experience  by  sense-perception — Mr. 
Balfour's  example  is  a  tree — "the  scientific  man 
knows  very  well  that  the  material  object  only  re- 
sembles his  idea  of  it  in  certain  particulars: — 
extension,  solidity,  and  so  forth' — and  that  in  re- 
spect of  such  attributes  of  colour  and  illumination 
there  is  no  resemblance  at  all."  Here,  then,  argues 
he,  is  a  break-down  in  the  Naturalist's  means  of 
knowledge,  which  can  only  be  explained  by  the 
hypothesis  that  these  immediate  experiences,  on 
which  he  depends  for  all  his  knowledge,  "are 
merely  mental  results  of  cerebral  changes ;  all  else 
is  a  matter  of  inference."  So  that  we  are  con- 
fronted by  the  horrible  cataclysm  that  Naturalism 
regards  the  world  thus,  while  her  ally,  Science, 
works  only  on  the  assumption  that  it  has  an  inde- 
pendent material  existence.  As  against  Naturalism 
the  hit  is  palpable.  But  to  those  who  believe  that 
the  explanation  of  the  world  must  rest  on  the  per- 
cipient self  as  well  as  on  the  percept — and  the  point 
is  already  fair,  since  Mr.  Balfour  has  told  us  that 
"there  is  no  theoretical  escape  from  the  ultimate 
*I' " — it   need   beget   no   suspicion    of   our   trusty 


90  THINGS   SEEN 

friends,  the  senses.  To  the  perceiving  mind  the 
tree  is  a  tree,  however  science  may  analyse  it.  You 
may  call  it,  if  you  will,  an  extended  solid  object 
plus  vibrations,  ethereal  undulations,  absorption  of 
most  part  of  the  same,  reflection  of  the  green 
residue,  incidence  on  the  eye,  arrangement  on  the 
retina,  stimulation  of  the  optic  nerve,  and  molec- 
ular change  in  the  cerebral  hemispheres.  But  in 
the  long-run  it  is  more  convenient  to  call  it  a  green 
tree,  and  in  the  theory  of  knowledge  it  is  just  as 
correct.  The  doubt  as  to  the  objective  existence 
of  the  material  world,  which  Mr.  Balfour  is  con- 
tinually raising,  is  equally  irrelevant.  As  it  is  the 
earliest  of  metaphysical  problems  to  suggest  itself, 
so  it  is  the  first  to  be  dissipated.  In  reality,  the 
problem  has  no  meaning  at  all.  Whether  our  per- 
ceptions represent  independent  objects  or  cerebral 
changes  makes  no  sort  of  difiference  either  in  specu- 
lation or  practice.  In  either  case  they  are  equally 
independent  of  and  complementary  to  the  per- 
cipient subject.  In  a  later  chapter  (the  first  of  Part 
IV.)  Mr.  Balfour  returns  to  this  subject.  Ingen- 
iously deriving  our  unqualified  belief  in  sense- 
perceptions  from  the  undoubted  benefit  such  a 
belief  would  confer  in  an  early  stage  of  the  struggle 
for  existence,  he  argues  thence  that  though  this 
belief  is  "more  inevitable  and  universal"  than,  for 
example,  the  belief  in  God,  it  is  not  more  worthy. 
He  nowhere  clearly  lays  down  any  canon  of  the 
worthiness  of  beliefs,  nor  is  it  altogether  clear  how 
this  should  be  done :  up  to  now  the  worthiness  of 


MR.   BALFOUR'S   PHILOSOPHY  9^ 

a  belief  has  been  generally  held  to  be  determined 
by  its  truth.  The  beHef  in  God  can  hardly  be 
worthier  because  it  has  to  do  with  a  higher  human 
function ;  for  higher  must  mean  more  specific  to 
man — there  being  no  question  of  the  morality  of 
beliefs,  as  such — and  nothing  is  more  specific  to 
man  than  thought,  of  which  sense-perception  is  a 
vital  element.  Nor  is  it  a  matter  of  "faith" — or 
inference,  as  many  would  prefer  to  call  it — since 
that  enters  into  both.  Nor  of  the  inevitable  allow- 
ance for  error,  since  this  is  at  least  as  great  in 
theological  beliefs  as  in  perceptions,  from  which 
theology  is  ultimately  derived ;  and  neither  the  last 
nor  the  first  link  in  a  coherent  chain  of  thought  is 
any  worthier  than  the  other.  So  that  we  may  ap- 
proach the  next  division  of  the  subject  with  our 
confidence  still  unimpaired — remembering  always 
the  small  allowance  for  physiological  or  inferential 
errors — in  what  remains  the  primary  coin  in  the 
currency  of  thought. 

And  now  rises  before  us  the  fair  formless  form  of 
the  Transcendental  Ego.  Duly  Mr.  Balfour  de- 
duces the  portentous  abstraction  from  the  possibil- 
ity of  sentient  experience.  And  you  would  sup- 
pose that  with  this  and  sense-perception  as  yet  re- 
maining to  all  but  the  Materialist,  even  fastidious 
he  would  begin  to  construct.  But  no !  He  con- 
tinues his  wild  iconoclastic  career.  He  brushes 
aside  the  theories  of  those  who,  by  the  aid  of  "ideas 
of  relation,"  would  constitute  the  world  of  objects 
out  of  the  subject  self;  for  does  not  the  subject  owe 


92  THINGS    SEEN 

its  metaphysical  existence  to  the  very  objects  it  thus 
complacently  proceeds  to  beget?  So  with  the  sin- 
ister souls  that  dare  elevate  the  abstract  Ego  into 
the  Divine :  how  can  you  venerate,  as  the  God  of 
love,  a  creature  of  metaphysics  whose  whole  being 
is  summarised  in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  an  object  of 
sense?  But  there  remains  a  third  possibility. 
Take  the  objective  world  and  the  abstract  self  as 
two :  can  they  not  figure  out  a  universe  between 
them?  Mr.  Balfour  does  not  smile  upon  this 
possibility.  He  does  not  find,  for  instance,  that 
causation  is  to  be  deduced  from  these  elements 
with  due  inexorability.  But  what,  ultimately,  is 
causation?  Popularly  the  cause  of  anything  is 
that  on  which  it  inevitably  follows ;  more  thought- 
fully stated,  it  is  that  without  which  it  cannot  exist. 
Then  what  is  the  cause,  let  us  say,  of  a  drawing- 
room  fire?  It  follows  inevitably  (when  properly 
conducted)  on  the  application  of  a  match ;  without 
the  match  it  could  not  exist.  But  is  the  match  the 
only  thing  that  fulfils  the  definition?  Could  the 
fire  exist  without  the  materials  of  which  it  is  itself 
composed,  without  the  human  agency  that  placed 
these  in  position,  without  the  oxygen  in  the  air? 
Come  a  step  farther :  on  this  showing,  is  not  the 
soil  in  which  the  wood  grew,  is  not  the  man  that 
cut  it  down,  and  the  father  that  begat  him,  and  the 
settled  social  state  that  allowed  his  father  to  devote 
a  peaceful  mind  to  the  propagation  of  a  son, — are 
not  all  these  things  as  much  the  cause  of  the  fire 
in  the  drawing-room  as  is  the  match?    And  could 


MR.   BALFOUR'S   PHILOSOPHY  93 

not  the  list  be  extended  for  ever  and  for  ever  until 
nothing  that  is  known  to  man  were  omitted  ?  We 
come  to  this  conclusion,  then :  that  the  cause  of 
each  thing  is  everything  else.  Unless  everything 
else  were  as  it  is,  each  thing  could  not  be  as  it  is. 
And  that  fact — the  fact  that  the  whole  system  works 
together  to  each  of  its  resultants — is  what  we  call 
the  Uniformity  of  Nature.  Nature  cannot  but  be 
uniform,  seeing  that  nothing  is  added  nor  taken 
away,  and  all  that  there  is  of  her  is  concentrated  in 
each  one  of  her  processes.  Now,  is  not  the  Trans- 
cendental Ego  competent  to  have  knowledge  of  this 
system?  To  suppose  an  abstract  principle  cogni- 
sant of  cause  sounds  at  first  an  assumption  auda- 
cious and  unwarrantable.  But  the  process  sketched, 
viewed  more  narrowly,  is  mere  matter  of  addition 
and  subtraction.  Hath  not  a  Transcendental  Ego 
memory  and  comparison,  perception  of  presence 
and  absence  in  phenomena,  and  a  unity  of  ac- 
cumulated truth?  By  the  hypothesis  it  has  all 
this.  All  this  is  just  what  it  is  for,  just  what  it  is. 
May  we  not,  then,  disallow  Mr.  Balfour's  objection 
on  the  score  of  causation  ? 

Through  the  Ego  and  phenomena,  therefore,  we 
rise  to  a  bilateral  conception  of  the  world.  On 
the  one  side  is  the  self,  on  the  other  its  objects, 
which  the  self  is  able  to  schematise  into  a  system 
of  interdependent  relations  which  exert  a  uniform 
pressure  on  any  one  point.  It  is  true  that  this 
conception  does  not  top  the  summit  of  the  phil- 
osophic  ideal.      Philosophy,  to   have   her  heart's 


94  THINGS   SEEN 

desire,  must  needs  envisage  the  world  as  mani- 
festation of  one  principle,  not  two.  Yet  we  might 
rest  in  this  dualism  with  a  very  tolerable  pro- 
visional satisfaction  if  nothing  better  can  be  attain- 
ed. It  is  true  that  this  compromise  cannot  be  any 
satisfaction  to  those  who  were  set  on  regarding 
the  self  as  the  index  of  God.  Mr.  Balfour  himself 
very  cogently  hints,  if  he  does  not  explicitly  demon- 
strate, why  this  is  not  so.  The  self  is  not  God, 
and  the  related  system  of  its  objects  is  not  God. 
Each  depends  on  the  other,  and  God  must  be 
Absolute.  If  there  is  to  be  any  Absolute,  it  must 
be  found  in  the  fusion  of  the  two,  in  the  whole 
of  which  they  are  the  related  parts.  But  such 
an  Absolute  is  beyond  relation,  and  therefore  be- 
yond human  knowledge,  which  is  itself  a  relation ; 
the  part  can  have  no  cognisance  of  the  whole.  So 
that  this  Absolute,  this  God,  is  unknown  and 
unknowable  to  man ;  it  is  merely  another  Thing- 
in-Itself,  unmeaning  and  null.  The  theory,  indeed, 
summarily  expressed,  justifies  the  statement  that 
there  is  no  God.  But  that  is  no  objection  to  the 
theory.  We  started  on  it,  not  to  find  a  God  at 
any  cost,  but  to  find  what  there  was  to  be  found. 
One  more  objection  to  this  view  Mr.  Balfour  al- 
leges, and  this  is  a  more  head-splitting  one  than  the 
others.  The  Ego  as  we  have  deduced  it  is  a  mere 
knowing-machine.  But  the  self  we  live  with — 
the  Empirical  Ego  of  the  psychologist — is  one 
that  feels  and  mourns  and  extends  itself  over  body 
and  legs  and  toes.     Now  we  cannot  say  that  this 


MR.   BALFOUR'S   PHILOSOPHY  95 

self  is  the  Ego,  because  it  is  the  object  of  the 
Ego's  perceptions.  Nor  can  we  conscientiously 
say  that  our  past  and  our  feelings  and  our  body  are 
no  more  ourself  than  our  chair  or  our  table.  Here, 
then,  is  the  problem  of  self-consciousness,  perhaps 
impossible  of  solution,  and  certainly  so  within  any 
possible  limits.  It  is  the  less  pressing  because 
for  metaphysics  the  Transcendental  Ego  is  all  the 
self  we  want.  For  empirical  psychology  the  self 
is  mainly  cerebral  changes;  for  ethics  it  is  the 
sense  of  freedom.  Much  criticism  might  be  di- 
rected upon  Mr,  Balfour's  objections  to  Determin- 
ism, though  they  are  not,  in  the  main,  novel.  But 
again  we  must  pass  on,  merely  marking  down  that 
we  have,  in  this  Dualistic-Idealistic  theory,  a 
skeleton  reconciliation  of  the  world,  unhinged,  it  is 
true,  at  one  important  joint,  and  in  much  need  of 
supplementing  in  every  member.  Still,  it  seems  a 
beginning,  and  we  can  but  wonder  what  better  Mr. 
Balfour  has  to  offer  to  us. 

Mr.  Balfour,  meanwhile,  is  discursively  driving 
the  Juggernaut  of  his  dialectic  over  most  of  the 
guides  that  mankind  has  looked  to  for  truth. 
Sense-perception  we  have  tried  above  to  patch 
together  again ;  later,  language  as  an  accurate 
vehicle  of  thought  goes  down  before  him,  as  it 
must  before  anybody  that  cares  to  tilt  hard  enough 
at  it.  Next  he  comes  to  consider  the  rival  claims 
of  reason  and  authority.  It  is  an  admirably 
perspicuous  chapter,  though  again  not  conspicu- 
ously novel.     To  such  as  plume  themselves  over- 


96  THINGS    SEEN 

much  on  their  rationality  it  will  be  somewhat  dis- 
quieting to  see  exposed  in  black  and  white  before 
them  the  infinite  smallness  of  that  portion  of  their 
judgments  which  is  based  immediately  on  reason. 
No  man,  indeed,  has  any  direct  concern  with  rea- 
son except  the  philosopher  who^  puzzles  after  prin- 
ciples or  the  plain  man  who  attempts  rarely,  and 
with  halting  casuistry,  to  apply  them.  Infinitely 
small,  if  we  rest  the  calculation  on  the  bare  number 
of  judgments  each  puts  down  to  its  score,  is  rea- 
son's part.  But  when  Mr.  Balfour  argues  that  au- 
thority is  more  characteristic  of  man  than  reason,  is 
he  not  misled  by  this  purely  irrelevant  considera- 
tion of  the  number  of  judgments  into  which  each 
enters  ?  He  admits  that  both  are  necessary  to  intel- 
lectual life;  why,  then,  put  either  above  the  other? 
Nothing  can  be  more  than  essential.  Moreover,  if 
either  is  to  take  precedence  over  the  other,  there 
are  some  good  grounds  for  urging  that  it  should 
be  reason.  Authority  cannot  move  a  step  with- 
out it,  for  even  the  acceptance  of  authority  means 
a  latent  syllogism :  "It  must  be  true,  for  Huxley 
says  so,  and  he  knows."  Moreover,  in  every 
statement  that  is  taken  on  authority  there  exists 
the  reasoning  by  which  it  was  arrived  at,  held 
in  solution,  and  capable  of  being  re-reasoned 
would  a  man  but  take  the  trouble.  Reason  is 
there,  but  you  must  call  for  it.  Unless  Mr.  Bal- 
four postulate  an  infallible  source  of  inspiration, 
every  dictum  of  authority  must  be  in  its  original 
statement  the  work  of  reason.    And  if  he  does 


MR.   BALFOUR'S   PHILOSOPHY  97 

so  postulate,  then  he  must  either  justify  his  pos- 
tulate by  reason  or  else  ask  us  to  take  him  for  an 
infalHble  source  of  inspiration  in  himself. 

Mr.  Balfour  has  now  examined  various  forms  of 
belief  in  three  aspects — by  the  light  of  their  con- 
sequences, their  reasons,  and  their  causes.  He  has 
found  their  consequences  deplorable,  their  reasons 
fallacious,  their  causes  misunderstood.  This  can 
hardly  apply  to  Naturalistic  beliefs  solely,  for  he 
proceeds  thence  to  draw  his  deductions  as  positive 
truth,  and  indeed  he  cannot  have  written  a  book 
with  the  same  ambition  of  producing  a  better 
creed  than  Naturalism.  So  far,  then,  as  these 
forms  of  belief  go,  they  promise  man  a  mean  life 
and  a  contemptible  death,  they  will  not  bear  an 
examination  of  their  rational  foundation,  and  they 
rest  on  such  alien  causes  as  authority  and  the  mis- 
apprehension of  terms.  With  such  modifications 
as  the  foregoing  discussions  may  have  brought 
into  this  view,  we  may  now  follow  him  as  he 
advances  from  this  shifting  ground  to  the  deduc- 
tion of  the  Deity.  Let  it  be  imputed  to  him  for 
courage  that  the  sand  shifts  beneath  him,  since  he 
is  not  of  those  who  shipwreck  reason  and  call  in 
God  from  heaven  to  set  up  the  world  again.  His 
attempt  is  to  deduce  the  existence  of  God  by 
mental  process ;  it  is  an  argument  "from  needs  to 
their  satisfaction."  This  curious  process,  hitherto 
unknown  to  logicians — and  whatever  just  deduc- 
tions Mr.  Balfour  may  make  from  the  validity  of 
logic,  he  can  hardly  argue  in  any  other  medium — 


98  THINGS  SEEN 

appears  to  be  of  a  quasi-transcendental  character. 
As  the  necessities  of  certain  beliefs  about  the  sen- 
sible world  lead  us  to  the  deduction  of  the  self, 
so  the  necessities  of  beliefs  about  the  universe  as 
a  whole  lead  us  to  the  deduction  of  a  God.  We 
cannot  get  rid  of  our  difficulties  about  the  world, 
but  by  "the  presupposition  that  it  was  the  work  of 
a  rational  Being  who  made  it  intelligible,  and  at  the 
same  time  made  us,  in  however  feeble  a  fashion, 
able  to  understand  it."  In  a  feeble  fashion,  indeed, 
it  would  seem,  since  it  is  just  this  lack  of  under- 
standing that  drives  Mr.  Balfour  to  postulate  his 
rational  Being.  The  first  criticism  that  suggests 
itself  is  not  recondite.  If  we  are  to  be  justified  in 
such  assumptions  by  a  mere  defect  of  understand- 
ing, are  there  not  a  thousand  other  assumptions 
equally  plausible?  I  might  compose  all  my  per- 
plexities by  postulating  that  I  made  the  world  when 
I  was  a  baby,  and  conduct  it  while  I  am  asleep. 
But  it  is  doubtful  if  this  view  would  command  any 
wide  measure  of  support. 

Once  more :  consider  what  is  meant  by  a  need. 
Is  the  need  that  compels  the  belief  in  God  of  the 
same  nature  as  the  need  that  forces  us  to  the  belief 
in  the  material  world?  Mr.  Balfour  asserts  that  it 
is  not  less  stringent.  If  he  means  our  belief  in  the 
materiality  of  the  world,  that  is  true.  But  belief  in 
the  material  world,  in  the  proper  significance  of  the 
term — bearing  in  mind  the  fact  that  it  is  all  one 
whether  the  material  world  is  or  is  not  represented 
by  anything  beyond  cerebral  processes — is  an  ut- 


MR.   BALFOUR'S   PHILOSOPHY  99 

terly  different  thing.  From  this  we  cannot  escape : 
unless  we  beheve,  with  reasonable  deductions,  what 
we  see  and  hear,  we  cannot  even  begin  to  know  or 
to  act.  We  could  not  live  in  the  world  a  moment 
without  it.  But  the  need  for  the  belief  in  God 
means  no  more,  at  the  most,  than  that  without  it  we 
cannot  know  all  that  we  can  imagine  ourselves  as 
knowing,  that  we  cannot  do  right  so  continuously 
as  we  can  imagine  ourselves  as  doing.  On  the  face 
of  it,  then,  this  argument  from  need  to  its  satisfac- 
tion is  an  ilHcit  one :  the  need  is  not  such  as  to  drive 
us,  as  a  primordial  condition  of  human  existence, 
to  satisfy  it  with  a  stable  belief.  We  have  every 
call  to  make  our  own  lives  coherent,  but  what  call 
have  we  to  make  the  universe  coherent  by  aid 
of  the  first  hypothesis  that  comes  to  hand?  The 
belief  in  God  is  not  truly  a  need  at  all,  unless  om- 
niscience and  perfection  be  needs :  men  think 
loyally,  and  feel  proportionately,  and  act  rightly 
without  it  every  day.  And  why  should  they  not? 
For  consider  the  nature  of  satisfaction  of  which  Mr. 
Balfour's  need  is  capable.  He  feels  it  as  a  need, 
because  he  cannot  explain  the  world,  and  cannot 
feel  assured  of  right  action  without  it.  But  can  he 
know  and  act  any  better  with  it?  Not  one  jot. 
The  intellectual  problems  that  were  dark  before  are 
dark  still ;  the  moral  quagmires  are  as  desperately 
trackless  as  ever  they  were.  Nor  could  it  be  other- 
wise. For  what  compels  us  to  leave  our  philoso- 
phies half-finished  on  the  roadside,  and  entangles 
us  in  inextricable  mazes  about  the  smallest  action 


lOO  THINGS   SEEN 

that  may  be  good  or  bad,  is  not  ignorance  of  gen- 
eral principles  but  of  particular  facts.  The  science 
is  always  there,  but  we  want  the  omniscience.  Now 
from  the  belief  in  God  can  proceed  no  knowledge 
of  the  unnumbered  accidental  circumstances  of  life. 
Therefore  there  comes  from  it  no  increase  of  knowl- 
edge or  certitude  of  goodness.  No:  the  need  is  no 
need,  and  the  satisfaction  is  no  satisfaction.  All 
that  this  faith  can  do  is  to  instil  a  comfortable  con- 
fidence in  the  origin  of  the  world  as  an  alien  auxil- 
iary to  knowledge,  and  in  its  guidance  as  an  alien 
auxiliary  to  morals.  The  most  that  could  result 
from  it  would  be  the  statement,  "There  is  a  God," 
grateful  as  a  consolation  but  worthless  as  a  truth. 
And  confidence  answers  not  to  a  need,  but  to  a 
hope.  But  it  is  not  competent  even  for  this.  It  is 
no  more  possible  for  hope  to  realise  the  future,  than 
for  remorse  to  annihilate  the  past. 

But  let  us  assume  the  reality  of  the  need  and  its 
satisfaction.  Let  us  further  assume  that  the  con- 
ception of  God  as  creator  and  guide  is  its  one  pos- 
sible satisfaction.  Of  what  nature  is  the  conception 
thus  secured?  Clearly,  as  the  result  of  a  trans- 
cendental process,  the  conception  is  governed  by 
the  conditions  that  gave  it  birth.  The  trans- 
cendental self  is  an  abstract  principle  unifying  the 
disconnected  phenomena  presented  in  sensitive  ex- 
perience. Even  so,  this  transcendental  deity  is  an 
abstract  principle  unifying  the  phenomena  pre- 
sented by  the  intellectual  and  moral  conditions  of 
the  world.     The  world,  says  Mr.  Balfour,  is  an  ab- 


MR.    BALFOUR'S    PHILOSOPHY  lOI 

surdity  without  creation  or  guidance ;  very  well,  in- 
fer creation  and  guidance.  More  than  this  we  have 
no  authority  to  claim.  And  then,  in  a  moment,  we 
suddenly  come  upon  Mr.  Balfour  speaking  of  "a. 
living  God !"  Who  is  hypostatising  the  abstract 
now?  He  is  straying  as  far  outside  his  mandate 
as  any  Fichte  making  the  Ego  rebound  on  nothing, 
and  bounce  back  in  the  form  of  a  material  world. 
God,  by  the  hypothesis,  is  a  causative  and  a  guiding 
principle,  and  there  is  no  possible  right  to  attribute 
one  shred  more  of  meaning  to  the  conception  than 
what  is  supplied  by  the  method  of  its  deduction.  Is 
it  needful  to  discuss  the  value  of  this  result?  Such 
a  God  is  worthless  and  unmeaning :  the  result  is  as 
jejune  as  the  process  is  illegitimate.  This,  then,  is 
the  end  of  the  long  quest — a  baseless  assumption,  a 
fulfilment  illicitly  begotten  by  an  imagined  need  on 
an  illusive  satisfaction,  an  identical  proposition,  an 
empty  formula,  a  Nothing.  Sooner  than  that,  let 
us  go  back  to  our  old  paths  that  seem  to  conduct  us 
now  and  again  a  step  onward,  even  though  it  may 
be  no  step  nearer  the  goal.  Let  us  turn  again  and 
maze  ourselves  with  our  broken  ingenious  relations, 
and  scrape  ourselves  with  our  blind  industrious 
scalpels. 


"LITTLE  EYOLF."^ 

To  sit  down  on  a  chair  before  a  desk  and  criticise 
Ibsen  on  paper  with  a  pen,  by  the  light  of  the  ordi- 
nary canons  of  dramatic  art,  seems  almost  a  sacri- 
lege. There  is  that  individuality  about  Ibsen  that 
constrains  even  sane  minds  to  envisage  him  either 
an  unhoped-for  anticipation  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  or  a  painfully  morbid  development  of  the 
Abomination  of  Desolation.  It  is  laid  on  Mr.  Will- 
iam Archer's  conscience  to  make  him  talk  a  shamb- 
ling, if  sometimes  forcible,  English  that  is  not  like 
any  other  of  the  tongues  of  men.  There  is  a 
quaintness  in  the  provincial  view  of  life  native  to 
Norway,  where  they  make  up  in  the  theory  of 
modern  civilisation  what  is  wanting  in  the  practice 
of  it.  And  there  is  an  essential  individuality — 
God-sent  or  Devil-born,  it  does  not  matter — in  the 
perverse,  anarchic,  fearless,  iconoclastic  character  of 
the  man  himself  which  struggles  to  the  surface  of 
every  play.  The  flavour  of  all  these  you  either  like 
or  you  do  not:  and  accordingly  Ibsen  is  either  a 
compendium  of  the  seven  names  of  the  prophet,  or 
a  convenient  root  for  words  significant  of  mental 
and  moral  debasement.  But  there  is  always  a 
neutral  zone  for  criticism  in  the  work  of  any  man 
that  tries  to  be  an  artist.     It  may  be,  or  may  not, 

'  New  Review,  January  1895. 
102 


"LITTLE    EYOLF"  I03 

that  Ibsen  sees  what  play  ought  to  be  written :  but 
does  he  write  a  play  well  when  he  sees  it?  Being 
here  outside  the  jurisdiction  of  vice  and  virtue,  we 
need  not  be  afraid  to  answer  that  he  does.  Ibsen 
knows  his  business.  He  can  make  a  play:  "Little 
Eyolf,"  like  the  rest,  is  a  work  of  skilled  joinery, 
made,  and  made  by  hand.  As  mere  workmanship, 
the  best  pieces  of  Ibsen's  maturity — "The  Doll's 
House,"  "Rosmersholm,"  "Hedda  Gabler" — are  in 
no  way  less  finished  than  the  articles  turned  out  by 
the  renowned  Sardou-machine.  As  the  workman- 
ship of  a  man  who  conceives  himself  to  be  wrestling 
with  great  and  wonderful  material,  the  turbulent 
Norseman  stands  in  some  respects  nearer  the  plane 
of  Sophocles  than  do  .most  men  who  have  con- 
structed plays  among  the  barbarians.  In  his  best 
work  you  will  hardly  find  one  word  thrown  away. 
The  casual  inanities  of  the  first  act  loom  like  omens 
through  the  vistas  of  the  last.  The  irony  of  the 
drama  is  drawn  to  its  tensest.  Every  speech  adds 
a  touch  of  character,  a  breath  of  atmosphere,  a 
nerve  to  the  dramatic  emotion.  The  subject  is  knit 
together  by  a  hundred  cords ;  it  holds  together  with 
the  adhesive  unity  that  is  the  formal  standard  of 
artistic  triumph.  That  is  Ibsen  at  his  best.  But 
we  may  doubt  if  at  present,  in  this  technical  prov- 
ince at  least,  Ibsen  still  stands  at  his  best.  Not  but 
in  "Little  Eyolf"  there  is  firm  characterisation, 
dramatic  irony,  economy  of  the  irrelevant  depend- 
ence of  part  on  part.  But  the  work  is  not  so  tight 
as  it  used  to  be.    Asta  Allmers  allows  herself  to 


I04  THINGS    SEEN 

contribute  a  good  many  remarks  to  the  conversa- 
tion that  contribute  Httle  to  the  revelation  of  her 
own  character  and  nothing  to  the  play.  And  this  is 
fatal,  because  Ibsen's  dialogue  makes  no  pretence 
to  intrinsic  brilliance.  The  moment  it  begins  to  be 
irrelevant,  it  collapses  all  in  a  heap  to  the  merest 
flat  of  inconsequent  and  even  laughable  banality. 

Yet  a  iew  gaps  of  disconnected  commonplace  in 
the  midst  of  much  pregnant  writing  are  of  slight 
moment :  they  merely  underline  the  fact  that  Ibsen 
is  growing  older.  Nor  is  it  of  importance  that  this 
very  dramatic  pregnancy  demands  a  second  read- 
ing, or  a  reading  preparatory  to  a  hearing.  If  you 
mean  tO'  dig  deep  into  the  heart  of  man  within  the 
compass  of  three  acts,  you  must  pack  the  rubble 
pretty  closely.  But  "Little  Eyolf"  is  marred  by  a 
far  worse  blemish.  The  dialogue,  in  the  main,  is 
adequate  to  express  what  it  means  to  express.  But 
the  plot  is  not  thus  adequate,  or  rather  there  are 
two  plots — or,  rather,  it  is  hard  to  say  how  many 
and  what  plots  there  are.  "Little  Eyolf,"  to  con- 
tinue its  analysis  on  the  formal  side,  is  ruined  by  a 
fault  of  construction.  It  sets  out  to  consider  the 
case  of  a  husband  and  wife,  who  indirectly  by  their 
own  fault,  lose  their  one  crippled  child.  That  is  quite 
a  fair  motive  for  an  art  that  deals  with  character. 
The  central  characters  are  weak,  but  not  abnormally 
weak,  and  it  is  the  gain  of  literature  that  they 
should  be  taken  in  hand  by  such  as  Ibsen.  He 
faces  the  situation  with  penetrating  insight  and  un- 
flinching logic.     But,  most  unluckily  for  him,  this 


"LITTLE    EYOLF"  105 

■will  not  make  a  play.  The  effect  of  such  a  catas- 
trophe on  the  parents  is  not  in  itself  an  adequate 
motive  for  dramatic  treatment.  Such  a  calamity 
will  work  changes.  But  it  will  work  them  slowly; 
by  degrees  they  will  manifest  themselves  from 
within,  as  the  legacy  of  the  one  tremendous  blow, 
and  not  as  the  effects  of  new  causes  acting  from 
outside.  What  has  the  drama,  whose  field  is  the 
clash  of  personality  on  personality,  to  do  with  such 
a  psychological  morphology?  Given  these  facts 
alone,  the  play  could  assume  but  one  shape.  Alfred 
and  Rita  would  come  out  on  the  stage  singly  or  to- 
gether, at  imaginary  intervals,  let  us  say,  of  a  fort- 
night, briefly  to  diagnose  their  souls  and  announce 
that  they  were  going  on  as  badly  as  was  to  be  ap- 
prehended. Even  as  a  duologue  the  thing  could 
never  be  played,  unless  the  apostle  of  modernity 
were  to  go  back  and  borrow  a  chorus  of  ^schylus 
to  help  fill  in  his  blanks  for  him. 

In  the  face  of  this  impossibility,  what  does  Ibsen 
do?  He  must  dovetail  a  character  or  two  on  to 
Allmers  and  Rita  to  help  them  out  with  it.  Hence 
Asta  Allmers  and  Borgheim.  Borgheim  is  not  of 
much  greater  consequence  to  us  than  he  is  to  the 
Allmers  family — a  very  pleasant  acquaintance, 
whom  we  should  miss  and  learn  to  do  without.  He 
is  a  firmly-drawn  character,  and  he  enriches  the 
world  of  truth  with  the  aphorism  that  "labour  and 
trouble  one  can  always  get  through  alone,  but  it 
takes  two  to  be  glad."  But  his  concern  with  the 
play  is  purely  atmospheric.     He  is  just  the  "open- 


lo6  THINGS    SEEN 

air  boy"  that  he  wished  to  see  constructed  out  of 
little  Eyolf.  He  comes  in  like  a  blast  of  keen 
mountain  wind  and  flings  up  into  your  nostrils  the 
stuffy  air  of  the  home  of  Allmers.  His  glad 
straightforward  energy  is  the  measure  of  their  wan- 
dering helplessness.  The  truth  is  that,  in  Borg- 
heim,  Ibsen  actually  has  gone  back  to  the  Greek 
chorus — such  chorus  as  in  these  days  he  is  allowed 
to  employ.  Borgheim  is  no  more  than  a  subli- 
mated kind  of  stage  property,  like  the  doctor  in 
"The  Doll's  House,"  and  the  gentleman  who  bor- 
rows half-crowns  and  ideals  in  "Rosmersholm;" 
his  function  is  purely  mechanical ;  it  is  a  confession 
of  impotence,  perhaps;  but  who  is  weak  man,  to 
write  plays  by  the  book  of  aesthetic?  Our  own 
dramatists  who  season  their  works  with  character 
parts,  as  per  salary  list,  will  doubtless  furnish  the 
first  stone. 

But  Asta  is  on  quite  a  different  footing,  and  is, 
indeed,  a  shameless  intruder.  She  is  simply  thrown 
into  the  plot  to  save  it  from  burning  out  for  lack 
of  fuel.  As  long  as  she  is  her  brother's  sister  she  is 
well  enough.  If  the  house  of  mourning  is  the  post 
of  duty  to  the  very  deceased  wife's  sister,  how  much 
more  to  the  deceased  son's  aunt?  In  the  analysis  of 
Alfred  Allmers  under  shock  it  arrives  by  logical  pro- 
cess that  he  turns  from  the  unsympathetic  wife  to 
the  more  sufificient  sister.  But  even  that  is  not 
enough  to  make  an  acting  play.  And  so  out  comes 
the  family  portfolio,  and  out  of  the  portfolio  the  late 
mother's  letters,  and  behold!    Asta  is  not  Alfred's 


"LITTLE   EYOLF"  I07 

sister  at  all,  but  our  old  friend  Regina  the  other  way 
about,  and  Rebecca  West  the  other  end  up,  and 
Elida  Goldenlove  the  other  side  round,  and  one 
touch  of  incest  makes  the  whole  gallery  of  them 
kith.  Worked  in  skilfully  no  doubt  it  is,  but  it  is 
a  hackney  dramatist's  trick,  flouting  you  with  its 
arbitrariness  and  utter  divorcement  from  the  inevit- 
abihty  of  real  drama.  The  crisis  between  Alfred 
and  Asta  is  wantonly  pasted  on  to  back  the  totter- 
ing interest  of  the  real  play.  And  time-worn  and 
impertinent  as  it  is,  it  is  so  much  stronger  for  the 
stage  and  the  dramatic  interaction  of  characters, 
that  for  the  time  it  usurps  the  attention.  So  that 
the  play  ends  twice.  It  ends  at  the  supposititious 
crisis  not  half-way  through  the  last  act.  And  then 
you  remember  that  this  was  not  the  play  after  all. 
And  Alfred  and  Rita  stand  up  and  spin  off  the  rest 
of  the  play  out  of  their  own  entrails  with  no  particu- 
lar reference  to  the  other  characters,  or  each  other, 
or  anything  else. 

In  the  technical  aspect  of  his  art,  therefore,  when 
it  is  judged  by  the  exacting  tests  his  own  technical 
mastery  challenges,  Ibsen  has  for  the  first  time 
achieved  a  failure.  For  the  first  time  he  has  set  out 
to  write  a  play  that  could  not  be  written,  and  at- 
tempted to  rescue  it  with  a  play  that  in  its  essentials 
he  has  written  before.  If  he  had  kept  rigidly  to  the 
death  of  Eyolf  and  the  contrasting  sorrows  of  his 
parents,  he  could  have  held  no  theatre  in  the  world 
for  an  hour.  Mourning  for  the  dead  is  a  narrative, 
not  a  dramatic  emotion.     If  he  had  preferred  the 


I08  THINGS    SEEN 

Story  of  Asta  and  Allmers,  he  could  have  written  a 
strong  play,  bnt  it  would  have  been  an  inverted  re- 
flection of  "Ghosts,"  and  an  exact  double  of 
Goethe's  "Geschwistcr."  As  it  is,  he  has  written  a 
Siamese  twin  of  a  play  which  all  his  unmatched 
dexterity  cannot  restrain  from  reciprocally  pulling 
itself  by  its  own  leg. 

But  it  would  be  affectation  to  pretend  that  it  is  of 
any  enthralling  interest  to  anybody  whether,  re- 
garded as  a  stage-play,  "Little  Eyolf"  is  a  good 
stage-play  or  not.  It  is  for  the  joy  of  lustier  debates 
than  these  that  we  look  to  our  Ibsen.  What  of  the 
Problem?  And  the  Lesson?  And  the  Psychology? 
And  the  Realism  and  the  Rat-Wife  ?  Especially  the 
R.at-Wife ;  she  is  the  newest,  so  that  most  of  the 
inquiries  will  naturally  be  directed  to  her  address. 
Here  is  more  symbolism,  and  what  are  we  to  say 
of  the  supernatural  in  the  drama?  And  who  is  the 
Rat-Wife,  anyhow?  And  what  does  she  stand  for? 
And  what  was  the  heart-quaking  Mopseman  doing 
in  that  bag?  But,  seriously,  need  we  bother  about 
the  Rat-Wife?  If  you  must  know,  she  symbolises 
Death,  and  she  has  no  business  to.  The  champions 
of  Passive  Acceptance,  my  Ibsen  right  or  wrong, 
need  not  trouble  to  re-harness  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's 
father.  Ibsen  himself  has  set  his  seal  to  it  that  the 
only  ghost  admissible  to  the  theatre  in  these  days  is 
the  inherited  characteristic.  In  any  case.  Death 
the  Assuager  does  not  take  the  fiord  steamer  down 
to  Christiania,  nor  would  any  pure-bred  hell-hound 
condescend  to  be  led  round  cottages  by  a  string. 


"LITTLE    EYOLF"  109 

The  unpitied  fate  of  "The  Master  Builder"  is  proof 
enough  that  drama  to-day  must  either  be  natural 
or  else  make  it  quite  plain  that  it  means  to  be 
imperturbably  supernatural.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  northern  fairy-tales  will  play  such  tricks  with 
northern  imaginations  as  they  glide  into  old  age. 
The  beldam  has  strayed  out  of  "Brand"  or  "Peer 
Gynt"  into  society  where  there  is  no  place  for  her. 
As  for  the  Problem  and  the  Lesson,  it  is  gratify- 
ing to  be  able  for  once  to  assure  the  public  that  they 
may  be  approached  without  suspicion.  There  are 
more  lessons  come  out  of  Ibsen's  plays  than  ever 
went  into  them.  The  human  mind  could  extract  a 
lesson  out  of  the  "NibelungenUed"  if  it  thought  fit ; 
it  habitually  draws  precepts  from  the  "Song  of  Solo- 
mon." It  is  true  that  Ibsen  lends  currency  to  the 
superstition  by  taking  for  his  characters  men  under 
the  influence  of  dominant  ideas — specialising  upon 
one  side  of  them,  as  with  the  optimist  and  the  pessi- 
mist in  "The  Wild  Duck."  But  to  deduce  therefrom 
that  Ibsen  is  a  pessimist  rather  than  an  optimist  is 
much  the  same  as  inferring  from  the  superiority  of 
"La  Bete  Humaine"  to  "Le  Reve"  that  M.  Zola 
thinks  a  locomotive-engine  is  better  than  a  cathe- 
dral. For  the  Problem,  that  is,  of  course,  a  serious 
matter.  Playgoers — how  often  must  you  go  to  the 
play  to  become  a  playgoer? — are  divided  into  their 
camps  under  the  banners  of  the  Problem  play  and 
the  other  sort  of  play.  Perhaps  the  exactest  pos- 
sible definition  of  the  Problem  play  is  a  play  like 
"The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray."    It  seems  cruel  to 


no  THINGS   SEEN 

stamp  upon  the  laudable  efforts  of  the  public  and 
the  'Daily  Telegraph'  to  differentiate  between  kinds 
of  plays ;  but  it  should  be  explained,  with  respect, 
that  every  play  is  either  a  Problem  play  or  not  a 
play  at  all.  The  heathen  Aristotle  himself  was  able 
to  point  out  that  every  play  is  divided  into  two 
parts,  the  binding  and  the  loosing,  the  prob- 
lem and  the  solution.  If  there  is  no  problem, 
there  is  no  situation,  no  difficulty,  no  play 
of  character,  no  drama.  Problem  is  common  to 
"Philoctetes"  and  "Charley's  Aunt;"  and  if  there 
could  be  such  a  thing  as  a  play  in  virtue,  not  of 
problem,  but  of  the  fact  that  it  is  spoken  from  a 
stage  into  the  theatre,  then  "Money"  would  be  a 
play — which  is  absurd.  What  the  man  in  the  pit 
regards  as  a  problem  play  is  a  play  that  makes  him 
think,  which  he  justly  regards  as  a  phenomenon 
deserving  of  wonder.  But  every  play  makes  a  man 
think,  if  it  goes  deep  enough  into  nature.  Not 
necessarily  at  the  time,  for  if  it  is  a  good  play  you 
must  follow  it  to  the  end.  But  afterwards  it  does : 
and  this  means  that  the  playwright  sees  deeper 
into  character  than  the  audience.  He  ought  to : 
otherwise  what  business  has  he  to  come  out  in  front 
of  the  curtain  instead  of  cheering  from  the  house? 
Now,  Ibsen  has  succeeded  in  making  more  people 
think,  or  thereabouts,  than  most  men  of  our  time. 
In  this  play  he  makes  you  think  of  the  way  it  hits 
a  man  and  woman  to  lose  an  only  child,  more  or 
less  by  their  own  fault.    That  is  the  problem,  and 


"LITTLE    EYOLF"  HI 

he  works  it  out  to  his  own  satisfaction — maybe  not 
to  yours. 

That  brings  us  on  to  the  psychology  of  "Little 
Eyolf."  Now  the  psychological  play  is  just  such 
a  bloodless,  'Daily  Telegraphic'  apparition  as  the 
problem  play.  Psychology  being  in  the  popular 
language  understood  as  the  investigation  of  what 
goes  on  in  the  human  mind,  plays,  being  written  in 
words,  which  are  the  expression  of  thoughts,  must 
needs  either  be  psychological  or  else  a  kind  of 
things-in-themselves  with  no  significations  that 
may  be  apprehended  of  man.  The  only  true  distinc- 
tion is  between  good  psychology  and  bad,  between 
much  psychology — which  means  much  stripping 
naked  of  the  human  heart — and  little.  In  "Little 
Eyolf"  Ibsen's  psychology  is  much  and  good. 
There  could  hardly  be  anything  better  than  the  first 
act,  except  the  second.  The  first  act  states  the 
case.  Here  is  a  mother  and  a  father,  both  weak — 
the  mother  in  intellect,  the  father  in  purpose  and 
feeling.  With  both  it  is  the  weakness,  the  un- 
equipped incapacity  for  life,  of  the  unbalanced 
mind.  The  mother,  as  it  turns  out,  is  the  straighter, 
the  more  respectable,  and  the  commoner  type.  Her 
small  heart  chocked  up  with  an  appetent  love  of 
Alfred  Allmers  has  no  room  for  anything  else, 
and  she  has  an  explosive  courage  which  lets  her  say 
so.  Alfred  would  have  the  courage  also,  but  he 
has  not  the  self-knowledge.  In  width,  not  in  depth, 
there  is  more  of  him  to  know ;  he  does  not  know  it. 
He  talks  much  of  his  life-work,  which  is  always  a 


112  THINGS    SEEN 

bad  sign  in  a  man :  he  should  be  read)^  with  it  when 
anybody  pays  to  see,  but  not  too  garrulous  of  it 
to  himself.  So  the  wretched  Allmers  at  one  minute 
feels  himself  capable  of  a  batch  of  new  life-works 
besides  his  book  ;  next  moment  he  can  on  no  terms 
have  another  life-work  than  Eyolf;  and  the  next 
he  is  quite  cheerfully  prepared  to  bisect  it  and 
apportion  the  other  half  of  it  to  Rita.  Then  the 
crash  comes  and  the  remorseless  analysis  begins. 
Ibsen  digs  up  the  soul  by  the  roots  to  see  how  it 
grows.  And  if  any  stronger,  truer,  profounder 
picture  was  ever  made  of  the  bereavement  of  weak 
natures  and  incompetent  parents — and  they  have 
many  points  of  coincidence  with  the  strong  and 
able — the  world  seems  somehow  to  have  lost  count 
of  it.  The  inarticulate  anguish,  the  compelled  self- 
scourgings,  the  conscious  cowardice,  the  impious, 
imperious  call  to  fling  out  on  the  world  all  the  petti- 
ness at  command — it  strikes  deep  down  because 
it  comes  from  deep  down.  Through  this  valley  of 
humiliation  the  parents  win  to  the  tardy  hour  of 
self-collection,  the  gathering  up  of  the  fragments, 
and  the  wandering  slow  steps  out  of  Paradise  into 
the  desolate  beyond.  There  is  a  kind  of  transforma- 
tion of  both  at  the  end — though  mark  that  it  is  in 
each  case  agreeable  to  character — and  this  can  be 
taken  as  untrue  to  life.  People  don't  change  their 
whole  being  so,  you  can  hear  the  critic  say.  They 
do  not.  Nothing  transmutes  a  character,  but  evei7- 
thing  changes  it.  That  is  what  is  meant  by  saying 
that  Ibsen's  plays  wind  up  v/ith  a  note  of  interroga- 


"LITTLE    EYOLF"  1 13 

tion.  Ibsen  winds  up  with  a  question  because  he 
knows  this.  Every  episode  in  a  life  ends  so ;  there 
is  ahvays  the  change,  but  experience  only  shall  show 
how  great  a  change;  the  full  stop  comes  only  with 
death.  Nora  banged  the  door,  and  doubtless  she 
came  back  again  within  the  month,  only  she  did  not 
come  back  the  same  Nora,  and  that  change  of 
Nora's  is  the  nett  result  of  "The  Doll's  House." 
So  Allmers  will  almost  certainly  go  up  North  to  his 
favourite  gushing-grounds  again,  only  not  alto- 
gether the  sam.e  Allmers.  And  Rita  will  stay  down 
at  the  villa  and  live  a  new  life,  yet  still  in  great  part 
the  same  Rita. 

This  story  of  Alfred  and  Rita  would  have  been 
better  told  in  a  novel.  But  it  is  a  masterpiece  none 
the  less,  and  it  is  better  to  have  it  in  a  play  than  not 
to  have  it  at  all. 


ZOLA.i 

A  great  writer  must  elect  to  march  along  one 
of  two  roads.  He  may  be  for  all  time,  or  he  may 
be  for  an  age.  This  means  that  all  later  generations 
will  read  themselves  into  the  first:  in  the  second 
one  will  see  itself  complete.  When  he  sits  down 
to  cast  about  for  his  subject-matter,  he  must  de- 
cide between  what  is  essential  and  elemental  in  life 
and  what  is  accidental  and  of  the  moment.  Of 
the  two  paths,  Emile  Zola's  genius  has  impelled  him 
unfalteringly  along  the  second.  He  is  of  the  last 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century ;  if  it  can  see  nothing 
in  him,  then  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen.  As  a 
document,  indeed,  it  is  sure  beyond  all  hesitation 
that  he  will  survive  for  ever.  So  long  as  men  care 
one  tittle  to  know  of  the  years  that  followed  '70, 
they  will  find  no  more  illuminating  history  of  what 
was  vital  in  them  than  'Les  Rougon-Macquart.' 
But  it  is  to  us  of  his  own  time,  if  for  any  one,  that 
Zola  makes  his  appeal  as  an  artist.  If  he  has  not 
called  up  this  modern  world  plain  and  coherent 
before  our  eyes,  it  is  impossible  he  can  be  more  than 
a  curious  puzzle  for  our  grandchildren.  His  men 
and  women  are  our  contemporaries,  or  they  are 
nobody;  his  interests,  his  casts  of  thought  and 
feeling,  are  ours  or  nothing.    He  has  crystallised  his 

'  National  Observer,  August  12,  1893. 
114 


ZOLA  115 

day  and  ours,  the  Second  Empire,  material  civilisa- 
tion, heredity  and  evolution  and  science,  showing 
us  ourselves  and  the  world,  raw  material  of  our- 
selves, mirrored  in  every  face  of  the  crystal  in  turn. 
It  is  not  worth  while  to-day  to  draw  sword  for 
the  realistic  method  of  fiction  as  Balzac  stumbled 
on  it  and  Flaubert  exhibited  it  full-grown  to  the 
world.  Its  manifest  and  technical  masterpiece  can 
be  had  in  Coventry  Street  for  half-a-crown.  Con- 
formably with  the  essence  of  art  it  is  a  symbolism 
— the  exhibition  of  the  vital  facts  of  life  in  the 
details  of  every  moment  which  they  govern  and 
infuse  with  colour  and  significance.  Such  a  method 
needs  no  defence  beyond  the  reminder  that  the 
picture  depends  for  its  pictorial  quality  upon  the 
background  as  upon  the  figure :  that  but  for  the 
accidents  of  life  out  of  which  it  fashions  itself,  life 
would  not  be  at  all.  Zola  took  up  realism  frankly 
where  Flaubert  left  it.  As  early  as  the  second 
volume  of  his  twenty,  he  began  to  use  the  host  of 
attendant  facts  that  formed  his  background  as  his 
atmosphere  and  his  most  irresistible  engine  of  ex- 
pression. The  exotics  of  the  hothouse  in  'La 
Curee,'  the  market-stalls  in  *Le  Ventre  de  Paris,' 
are  not  just  heavy  fragrance  and  prismatic  colour: 
out  of  them  there  is  struck  the  dominant  note  of  the 
book.  As  the  series  went  on,  the  mass  of  details 
accumulated  till  it  became  a  gigantic  mechanical 
difficulty  to  discipline  them.  But  each  time  Zola 
triumphed  as  a  craftsman.  He  is  the  Napoleon  of 
fiction.  He  marshals  his  army  of  insubordinate  de- 


n6  THINGS   SEEN 

tails  so  that  each  one  contributes  to  the  weight  of 
the  mass,  then  flings  them  upon  you  crushingly. 
Each  unit  tells,  but  each  is  kept  rigidly  proportioned 
to  the  rest  and  to  the  whole.  There  are  thousands 
of  soldiers,  but  they  never  cease  to  be  an  army.  So 
he  rises  to  the  artistic  miracle  of  'La  Debacle' — 
infantry  and  cavalry  and  artillery,  engineers  and 
commissariat  and  ambulance ;  the  smell  of  the 
powder  and  the  'horses ;  the  swish  of  each 
footstep  as  Corporal  Macquart  and  Private 
Levarseur  drag  themselves  through  the  miry  lanes 
of  Champagne,  the  hunger  shining  from  their  eyes 
as  they  tighten  their  belts  at  the  bivouac,  the  blood 
flaming  through  their  veins  in  the  last  madness  of 
Sedan.  Yet  all  these  things  never  blind  Zola  to  the 
one  great  generalisation.  War,  seen  steadily  and 
whole. 

But  to  collect  together  a  mob  of  facts  is  not  real- 
ism, and  he  who  can  see  no  more  than  this  in  'Les 
Rougon-Macquart'  has  almost  a  right  to  belong  to 
a  vigilance  society,  and  assist  at  the  prosecution  of 
the  next  Vizetelly.  Art  must  be  governed  by  an 
idea,  and  the  pleasure  that  the  simple  take  to  be  the 
touchstone  of  artistic  achievement  is  but  the  pleas- 
ure that  must  attend  on  any  idea's  comprehension. 
Now  the  novelists  before  Zola  had  taken  for  their 
dominant  ideas  some  aspect  of  human  character. 
Flaubert  did  so  whenever  he  took  any  interest  in  his 
subject-matter  at  all.  Balzac  did  so  too :  if  he  was 
led  at  times  by  the  irresistible  allurement  of  exist- 
ence as  existence  to  turn  aside  and  w^atch  the  mak- 


ZOLA  117 

ing  of  paper  or  the  diligence  service  between  Paris 
and  the  provinces,  he  was  yet  never  his  real  self  but 
when  he  was  prying  curiously  into  the  most  com- 
plex workings  of  the  heart  of  man.  In  one  blas- 
phemed word,  the  ideas  before  Zola  were  psycho- 
logical— the  same  ideas  that,  having  run  under 
when  the  naturalistic  novel  began  to  conquer  the 
world,  have  sprung  up  again  with  Bourget.  But  to 
Zola  the  warmer  and  finer  emotions  of  man  call 
faintly.  Beyond  that  most  poignant  tragedy  of 
Silvere  and  Miette  in  his  first  volume,  there  is  hard- 
ly a  sign  of  it  but  the  hard,  if  terribly  convincing, 
power  of  'La  Conquete  de  Plassans,'  and  the  half- 
loving,  half-cold  dissection  of  *Une  Page  d' Amour' 
and  'Le  Reve.'  Again  and  again  it  has  been  re- 
peated, with  more  truth  than  understanding,  that 
Zola  creates  no  individuals.  You  might  indeed  say, 
on  the  other  side,  that  literature  has  never  created 
an  individual;  that  to  create  a  complete  individu- 
ality you  must  weave  together  into  your  imperson- 
ation everything  in  the  world  that  could  be  said 
about  a  man  ;  that  to  tell  his  name  and  his  ancestry, 
as  Zola  does,  to  describe  his  person,  to  say  how  he 
eats  his  dinner  or  reads  his  newspaper,  is  really  to 
give  the  world  a  greater  working  intimacy  with  him 
than  the  finest  diagnosis  of  his  emotion  when  he 
first  called  his  loved  one  his.  None  the  less  it  re- 
mains true  that,  compared  with  masters  like  Shake- 
speare or  Turgenieff,  Zola  does  not  people  his 
books  with  breathing  men.  The  terrible  Rougons 
and  the  abominable  Macquarts  are  less  than  men, 


Ii8  THINGS   SEEN 

but  in  a  manner  they  are  also  more.  There  are  sides 
of  their  characters  that  he  leaves  unhandled.  But 
where  his  ideas  touch  them,  where  men  come  into 
relation  with  the  forces  on  which  the  mind  of  his 
age  has  been  set — then  he  tells  more  of  them  than 
any  man.  He  gets  firmer  foothold  on  to  the  solid 
rock  of  the  ultimate.  His  generalisations  spread 
themselves  out  more  widely;  he  sets  men  more 
manifestly  in  their  true  places  among  their  fellows 
and  in  the  total  of  all  things. 

Man,  then,  is  not  his  theme,  but  man  in  relation 
to  the  forces  that  fashion  the  world.  To  vary  the 
phrase,  he  is  the  poet  of  these  days  of  science  as 
Darwin  was  their  prophet — the  poet  of  machinery 
and  levelling  analysis  and  all-governing  law.  His 
subject  is  some  enormous  idea,  and  his  characters 
are  the  subject  in  action.  Marthe  Rougon  and 
her  imbecile  Desiree,  Maxime  and  his  miserable 
Charles,  are  not  men  and  women,  but  units  of 
heredity.  Eugene  Rougon  and  his  arid  satellites 
are  units  of  the  Second  Empire.  There  is  no  novel 
of  all  the  twenty — if  you  set  aside  'La  Fortune  des 
Rougon,'  which  just  stops  short  of  being  two  books, 
a  preface  and  an  idyll— that  has  not  some  huge 
abstraction  for  its  subject.  And,  strangely,  the  one 
factor  in  Zola's  universe  which  he  fails  most  signally 
to  embody  artistically  is  just  that  heredity  of  which 
he  started  out  to  write  the  epic.  To  the  poet  hered- 
ity appears  most  importunately  as  unbreakable 
bands  of  necessity, hurrying  its  victim  whither  it  will. 
But,  though,  no  man  certainly  has  better  realised 


ZOLA  119 

the  tragedy  of  the  inexorable  constraint  that  presses 
in  on  man  from  every  side,  Zola  has  never  worked 
out  the  possibilities  of  heredity.  He  paints  it  at 
his  solemnest  in  the  gathering  of  the  five  gener- 
ations in  the  madhouse  of  les  Tulettes,  but  it  is 
never  even  commensurate  for  impressiveness  with 
Ibsen's  appalling  concentration  of  heredity  on  one 
point  in  'Ghosts.'  Indeed,  heredity  lags  languidly 
through  some  half-dozen  volumes  and  then  disap- 
pears altogether  but  for  the  rarest  and  most 
perfunctory  moments  of  self-assertion.  With  'L'As- 
sommoir'  Zola  began  to  grapple  with  fresh  impos- 
sibilities. The  heroine  of  that  book  is  not  Gervaise 
nor  drink,  but  the  vie  oiwriere.  There  are  charac- 
ters for  all  the  shades  and  gradations  of  it.  In  the 
thick  of  all  goes  Coupeau,  haled  along  by  the  un- 
pitying  impulse  of  environment,  the  type  and  muster 
of  Aristotle's  tragedy — the  man  neither  good  nor 
bad,  tumbHng  by  accident  and  error  into  the  deepest 
pit.  Having  shaken  the  load  of  heredity  from  his 
back,  Zola  went  on  to  other  conceptions,  which  you 
may  colour  with  the  light  of  science  or  poetry  as 
you  will — prostitution  in  'Nana,'  a  rotten  hour- 
gcoisie  in  'Pot  Bouille'  (where  the  essential  is  the 
chorus  of  servants,  the  scum  on  the  stewing  corrup- 
tion of  the  demure  house  in  the  Rue  de  Choiseul), 
the  new  commerce  in  'Au  Bonheur  des  Dames,'  the 
"black  poetry  of  Schopenhauer"  in  'La  Joie  de 
Vivre.'  The  conceptions  expand,  and  the  style  is 
transformed  with  them.  Beginning  in  the  tight, 
costive  manner  of  Flaubert,  the  uiof  propre  giving 


I20  THINGS    SEEN 

its  value  to  each  sentence,  he  becomes  broader  and 
more  fluent,  at  last  quite  melodramatic.  In  the 
end  comes  'Le  Docteur  Pascal,'  the  hymn  of  life: 
the  hymn  that  whispered  through  the  rustling  of 
the  Paradou,  half-sung  in  all  the  births,  marriages, 
and  deaths  with  which  the  toiler  marked  the  mile- 
stones of  his  progress,  the  undertone  in  all  the 
episodes  of  love  and  lust  that  give  away  half  the 
virtue  of  convinced  frankness  in  the  vice  of  unper- 
spectived  revolt.  The  long  work  ends  fitly  with  the 
passionate  dithyramb  of  life — the  unconquerable 
resolution  to  exist  that  goes  like  the  sun  into  sewers 
as  into  palaces,  and  is  not  defiled. 

In  the  process  of  these  widening  generalities  he 
gradually  shaped  a  structure  for  the  novel  quite 
distinctive  and  luminously  illustrative  of  the  side 
the  world  turns  towards  him.  While  he  cast  the 
skin  of  Flaubert's  manner  of  writing,  he  developed 
a  framework  for  each  story  almost  as  rigidly  formal. 
Taking  the  material  in  which  he  chose  to  personify 
his  ideas — say  a  coal-mine  and  colliers — his  manner 
was  to  present  a  long  procession  of  pictures  of  it. 
There  are  the  pit  and  the  pitmen  at  all  times,  day 
and  night,  summer  and  winter,  in  every  phase  of 
their  characteristic  life.  Sometimes,  in  'Une  Page 
d'Amour*  or  'Au  Bonheur  des  Dames,'  the  picture 
never  changes  its  outlines.  Impression  succeeds 
elaborated  impression,  and  the  reading  public  cries 
out  against  the  unmeaning,  unending  repetitions. 
But  they  are  not  repetitions.  Each  one  of  the  great 
sales  in  'Au  Bonheur  des  Dames'  marks  the  close 


ZOLA  121 

of  a  cycle  of  the  history ;  each  cycle  enfolds  more 
than  the  last.  Such  samenesses,  with  the  greater 
fulness  to  which  they  are  the  foil,  mark  the  ever- 
recurrent  pulses  of  life  and  civilisation,  and  each 
throbs  with  an  intenser  enthusiasm  than  the  last. 
Sometimes— take  'Le  Docteur  Pascal'  for  an  ex- 
ample —  the  same  words  ring  again  and  again 
through  the  book  like  a  refrain.  As  the  passion  of 
the  poet  grows  hotter  they  too  grow  with  a  magnifi- 
cent expansion,  until  they  burst  the  body  in  which 
for  art's  sake  they  are  imprisoned,  and  pervade  the 
universe  in  their  native  guise  of  universal  truths. 
There  is  always  the  consciousness  of  abstract  truth 
struggling  to  assert  itself  through  every  one  of 
Zola's  men  and  machines  and  institutions.  It  gives 
all  his  work  a  strange  kind  of  perfection,  not  wholly 
artistic,  but  more  like  the  perfection  of  a  system 
whose  fitted  parts  are  all  squared  and  jointed  flaw- 
lessly. If  the  system  is  right,  all  is  right.  To  come 
back  to  'La  Debacle,'  what  could  be  more  triumph- 
antly relevant  and  triumphantly  true  than  the  figure 
of  the  peasant  stolidly  working  his  fields  among  the 
shells  of  Sedan?  Without  the  idea  it  is  melodrama 
— perverse  and  objectless  melodrama.  But  the  idea 
comes  to  rescue  it — the  idea  of  recuperation  in  the 
fact  of  destruction,  the  indomitable  perpetuity  of 
life,  the  implicit  statement  of  the  law  that  becomes 
outspoken  with  'Le  Docteur  Pascal.'  It  is  this 
symmetry  and  coherence — the  constant  sense  of 
massive  agencies  working  through  all  casual  actions 
to  which  they  lend  purport  and  explanation — that 


122  THINGS   SEEN 

gives  us  leave  to  call  Zola  the  most  ideal  of  the 
idealists.  The  real  subject  of  the  'Rougon-Mac- 
quart'  is  eternal  truth,  its  real  hero  indestructible 
force. 

It  is  the  scientific  spirit  aflame  with  poetry.  In 
place  of  the  hopeless  struggle  to  grapple  with  the 
monstrous  tangle  of  interests  that  make  up  a  man 
to-day,  Zola  puts  the  device  of  taking  him  by  sec- 
tions at  a  time  and  referring  him  under  each  sec- 
tion to  one  of  the  primitive  forces  that  struggle  in 
the  complexity  of  his  nature.  He  seems  to  be  sing- 
ing the  war-song,  not  of  man  but  of  the  impalpable 
agencies  of  philosophy.  But  to  tell  of  philosophies 
and  agencies  is  none  the  less  to  tell  of  man,  whom 
they  form.  It  is  the  passion  of  science,  who  for 
once  has  caught  the  look  of  her  sister  art.  That 
is  why  Zola  is  for  this  one  age  of  science — a  won- 
derful sport  in  the  line  of  artistic  evolution.  For 
if  art  could  only  once  be  science  she  would  die 
happy.    But  she  would  die  all  the  same. 


THE   NEW   TENNYSON.i 

("In     Memoriam."     By     Alfred     Tennyson.     London: 
Moxon.) 

That  a  poet,  when  death  has  robbed  him  of  his 
friend,  should  put  his  woe  into  threnody  is  in 
gracious  accord  with  what  the  world  takes  to  be 
the  spirit  of  poetry.  Poetry,  we  please  ourselves  to 
think,  is  the  resultant  of  emotions  too  importunate 
not  to  chafe  at  the  commonness  of  the  common 
expression  and  burst  through  them  into  a  form 
where  words  can  pulse  with  the  rhythmical  throb 
of  grief  and  joy.  By  the  grave,  if  anywhere,  poetry 
claims  the  right.  Then,  if  ever,  our  ears  are  open 
to  the  poet.  But  what  are  we  to  say  if  he  catches 
at  the  occasion  of  his  bereavement  to  spin  cobwebs 
of  disquisition  about  himself  and  nothing  else?  Are 
we  not  right  to  complain  that  he  abuses  the  privi- 
leges of  his  order?  Surely.  And  we  take  "In 
Memoriam"  to  be  such  an  abuse.  In  three  years 
its  author  has  written  one  hundred  and  thirty  and 
odd  poems  about  himself.  He  has,  like  other  men, 
a  right  to  talk  about  himself,  to  strip  his  soul  naked 
in  the  eyes  of  mankind.  But  he  has  not  a  right  to 
do  so  under  the  pretence  of  an  elegy,  and  the  pen- 

1  The  state  of  the  publishing  trade  is  such  that,  for  this  week  at  least, 
we  can  give  reviews  of  old  books  alone;  done,  it  is  right  to  say,  in  several 
styles,  as  though  the  themes  were  actual  a7id  the  authors  were  of  to-day. 
—Ed.,  'National  Obsebveb,'  August  26,  ld93. 
123 


124  THINGS    SEEN 

alty  for  his  transgression  is  that  his  elegy  rings 
hollow.  We  look  first  in  such  work  for  the  energy 
of  sorrow ;  instead  of  it  we  find  this  poet  on  the 
threshold  obscurely  quoting  some  classic,  we  know 
not  whom,  and  wondering  to  himself  how  long  his 
sorrow  will  endure  and  what  will  be  its  nett  effect 
on  his  character.  "I  weep  for  Adonais,"  said  Shelley 
in  a  like  case.  But  our  threnodist,  having  struck 
this  false  note  at  the  outset,  continues  to  blunder, 
and  the  chords  of  his  lyre  jar  worse  and  worse  as 
he  goes  on  thrumming  it.  At  the  best  of  times  Mr. 
Tennyson  has  but  little  fire  of  emotion  to  warm 
withal  the  delicate  flavour  of  those  things,  old  and 
new,  that  he  serves  up  before  us :  he  is  the  poet 
of  afternoon  tea  drunk  in  blue  teacups  in  an  old 
garden.  And  here  where  we  crave  most  urgently 
for  a  little  genuine  glow  we  get  it  least.  We  ask 
for  sorrow;  he  gives  us  tortuous  self-analysis  and 
metaphysics.  "In  Memoriam"  is,  indeed,  the  tri- 
umph of  self-consciousness.  When  before  did  gen- 
uine mourning  drape  itself  in  the  stiff  trappings  of 
Horace,  or  spend  hours  on  the  laboured  dissection 
and  comparison  and  classification  of  the  various 
kinds  of  distress  into  which  finally  he  can  twist  him- 
self at  will?  It  is  not  so  that  real  men  mourn,  nor 
so  that  they  write  elegies.  Grief  for  the  dead  is 
very  like  a  bodily  wound.  Now  and  then  it  can  be 
handled  freely,  and  the  ecstasy  breaks  out ;  after- 
wards it  stiffens,  and  to  touch  it  hurts.  The  mem- 
ory of  loss  is  pushed  resolutely  into  the  background 
of  the  heart ;  it  is  for  a  long  time  too  horrible,  too 


THE    NEW   TENNYSON  125 

piercing  an  agony  for  recollection:  one  goes  about 
in  a  fear  almost  physical  of  anything  that  might 
rip  it  open  anew.  Look  at  that,  and  then  look  at 
this  dandy  heartbreak  of  "In  Memoriam,"  patting 
its  lines  into  shape  and  tasting  the  flavour  of  its 
epithets' — evermore  picking,  picking,  picking  at  the 
scar  that  never  bleeds.  How  dear  Mr.  Tennyson's 
friend  was  to  him  we  have  neither  the  right  nor 
the  desire  to  inquire :  it  would  be  a  wanton,  an  in- 
solent cruelty  to  try  to  plumb  the  depth  of  his  dis- 
tress. But  since  he  has  made  it  into  a  dirge,  we 
•have  the  right  to  say,  and  we  do  say,  that  his  dirge 
is  a  bad  one.  It  may  be  great  philosophy,  it  may  be 
wonderful  poetry,  but  it  is  most  frigid  elegy.  Read 
Catullus,  read  Shelley,  who  was  all  things  sooner 
than  full-blooded,  and  you  will  see  the  difference 
between  straight  and  crooked,  deep  and  shallow. 
In  all  these  well-filled  lines  you  shall  not  find  one 
echo  of  that  instinctive,  animal  cry  of  pain  which 
levels  all  men  in  the  face  of  those  cruellest  deaths 
that  lop  ofT  a  limb  of  the  soul  and  leave  the  rest  to 
live  and  wince. 

Mr.  Tennyson  chooses  to  make  public  all  things 
about  himself  except  the  one  passionate  fact  that 
could  alone  have  started  the  work  into  life.  He 
goes  round  and  round  it,  with  a  hint  here  and  an 
implication  there  that  just  serve  to  make  the  mix- 
ture tepid  instead  of  cold.  He  sings,  it  may  be,  be- 
cause he  must,  but  it  is  the  must  of  the  scribbler, 
and  not  of  the  full  heart.  It  is  so  with  the  poems 
that  would  be  personal ;  it  is  so  with  those  of  wider 


126  THINGS   SEEN 

application  approaching  issues  momentous  for  the 
race.  Nothing  but  an  incurable  itch  of  versifying 
could  have  kept  him  through  all  those  years,  dry- 
ing his  tears,  then  blubbering  out  afresh,  moaning 
out  his  timid  doubts  and  fears  and  hopes,  now  an 
Atheist,  now  a  Christian,  now  a  Pantheist, — always 
anything  for  poetical  copy,  and  at  bottom  always 
nothing  at  all.  You  long  to  take  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  shake  him  heartily  and  quote  King  Claud- 
ius on  unmanly  grief.  Where  is  the  use,  where  is 
the  dignity,  of  these  perpetual  unanswered  ques- 
tions? Is  my  friend  alive?  he  cries,  and  answers 
Yes  and  No  in  a  breath.  Shall  I  see  him  again?  Is 
it  considered  a  mesalliance  in  heaven  if  he  loves  me 
yet?  Now  what  is  all  that  to  him?  In  love,  as  in 
all  things,  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive. 
The  reward  of  love  is  in  the  loving.  And  just  so 
the  reward  of  life  is  in  the  living.  Why  go  strain- 
ing aching  eyes  towards  the  clouds  when  honest 
living  lies  in  the  path  before  him?  What  is  there 
in  this  life  that  makes  it  nothing  but  the  vestibule 
of  the  vacant  future,  to  be  hurried  through  with  the 
one  regret  that  it  is  not  more  quickly  crossed?  To 
vapour  about  the  imperfection  of  this  world  and  the 
tremulous  hope  of  another — this  is  not  the  faith  of 
which  he  is  so  enamoured.  Faith  is  to  set  one's  face 
steadfastly  against  all  the  ills  of  life;  content  to 
know  what  can  be  known,  and  outstare  the  brazen 
truth  with  the  unconquerable  resolution  born  of 
self-respect.  Honest  doubt  can  never  creep  into 
the  philosophy  of  a  brave  man  who   can  think 


THE    NEW   TENNYSON  I27 

straightforwardly.  Only  two  attitudes  befit  him: 
investigation  towards  what  is  possible  of  discovery ; 
indifference  to  all  else.  Does  his  friend  die?  He 
faces  out  the  truth :  he  is  gone  for  this  life,  and  it 
is  hopeless  work  to  guess  about  another.  He  reels 
and  goes  on,  torn  with  the  pain  but  never  surren- 
dering his^ree  soul  to  it  by  so  much  as  one  groan. 
This  puny  womanish  complaint,  that  can  neither 
weep  hot  tears  nor  keep  dry  eyes,  might  be  set  in 
the  loveliest  language  of  poetry,  and  that  would 
avail  nothing  to  save  it.  The  curse  of  the  sentiment 
must  pervade  the  words.  And  so  it  is  here.  That 
there  are  exquisite  passages  of  poetry  we  allow.  It 
is  unfortunate  that  they  are  there  to  veil  its  ugliness, 
but  it  is  certain  that  there  they  are.  As  certain  is 
it  that  the  exquisiteness  is  all  in  the  irrelevancies. 
That  Mr.  Tennyson  can  make  graceful  descriptions 
of  scenery,  that  he  is  a  master  of  literary  allusion, 
that  he  writes  music,  that  he  constructs  phrases  that 
capture  the  fancy  by  an  unerring  combination  of 
sound  and  colour  and  motion, — all  this  is  known  to 
all  Englishmen.  But  here  sickly  thought  has  spread 
its  contagion  to  words.  Just  as  he  circles  round  and 
round  his  despair  and  his  belief,  so  in  this  poem  he 
often  writes  round  and  round  his  meaning  with 
never  an  attempt  to  get  to  the  heart  of  it.  He  has 
invented  here  a  new  language,  the  language  of  the 
refined  Sentimental  Coward.  He  tumbles  alter- 
nately into  fine  writing  and  obscurity.  The  vice  of 
circumlocution  is  inevitable  to  the  man  who  sets 
himself  to  pore  over  his  friend's  grave ;  the  vice  of 


128  THINGS   SEEN 

vagueness  proceeds  as  inevitably  from  thus  fum- 
bling with  an  idea  that  he  cannot  or  dare  not  grip. 
So  that  there  results  a  strange  admixture  of  final 
and  immortal  phrasing  with  dark  and  mawkish  af- 
fectation. And,  because  the  affectation  is  the  true 
vehicle  of  the  poem,  it  is  this  that  tastes  in  the 
mouth  at  the  end.  The  metre,  too,  with  its  horror 
of  the  epigrammatic,  is  made  to  bleat  in.  With  it 
all  there  are  two  lines  that  stick  fast  in  the  memory 
and  sum  up  the  whole.  The  voice  is  not  the  voice 
of  grief;  and  the  words  are  hard  to  understand. 
Also,  they  are  not  worth  understanding. 


WORDS   FOR  MUSIC.i 

That  the  books  of  Wagner's  operas  are  monuments 
of  fooHshness,  all  that  are  unfamiliar  with  the  Mid- 
dle High  German  tongue  will  readily  allow,  and 
those  that  are  not  are  unworthy  of  being  taken  into 
consideration.  Yet  it  is  so  much  less  trouble  to 
give  a  dog  a  bad  name  than  to  hang  him,  that  our 
countrymen  would  often  be  at  a  loss  to  uphold  this 
primary  conviction  by  solid  argument.  So  that  the 
Englishman  abroad  in  the  Fatherland  of  the  Leit- 
motiv  might  well  be  idler  than  in  going  to  see  and 
supply  himself  with  a  poser  for  the  Wagnerian. 
There  is  not  so  much  to  do  of  an  evening  in 
Munich.  The  stranger  may  spend  one  evening 
drinking  beer  in  the  English  Garden,  and  the  next 
at  the  uncovered  tables  of  the  Miinchener  Kind'l 
drinking  beer ;  but  in  the  end  tedium  will  surely 
drive  him  into  the  Hoftheater.  There,  by  good  luck, 
he  may  chance  upon  that  earliest  work  of  the  master 
that  he  called  "The  Fays."  Of  the  music,  indeed, 
he  need  take  little  note.  It  points  back  to  Wagner's 
Kapellmeistership  at  Dresden,  when  the  tradition 
of  Weber  still  hung  about  the  opera  there.  But 
Wagner  might  have  slept  all  his  days  in  sackcloth 
and  ashes,  instead  of  silken  nightshirts,  without  be- 
ing granted  that  delicious  magic  of  melody  with 

^  National  Observer,  July  22,  1893. 
129 


I30  THINGS    SEEN 

which  Weber  embroidered  his  tales  of  fairyland. 
The  score  of  "The  Fays"  is  all  made  up  of  com- 
monplace phrases,  repeated  meaninglessly  to  in- 
finity, of  endless  recitative  with  never  a  vitalising 
touch  of  drama,  and  among-  it  all  some  faltering 
echoes  of  Weber  coming  to  a  timely  end  by  quick 
and  welcome  sufifocation.  But  the  book  is  a  dream 
and  a  wonder  beyond  the  imagination  of  man.  Seen 
and  heard  by  the  untutored  Englishman,  this  is  the 
impression  of  it. 

You  begin  with  some  evolutions  of  what  the  play- 
bill calls  the  Wifely-Ballet-Personal :  after  which 
the  story  unfolds  itself.  Once  on  a  time  a  certain 
prince  strayed  in  an  unguarded  moment  to  Fairy- 
land, became  naturalised  there,  married  a  consort 
and  had  two  children.  But  by  the  beginning  of  the 
tale  he  had  grown  cold  to  the  embraces  of  his  con- 
sort (she  is  never  called  wife)  and  deaf  to  the  prattle 
of  his  children.  His  affections  were  set  passion- 
ately on  one  thing  only  in  all  the  world,  and  that 
was  going  to  sleep.  He  would  go  to  sleep  all  about 
the  stage,  on  no  occasion,  for  whole  scenes  at  a 
time.  One  day  he  happened  to  be  sleeping  "around" 
in  a  wild  and  rocky  country,  when  a  large  crowd 
of  men  with  alpenstocks  swarmed  in  over  the  cliffs 
and  began  singing  a  chorus  so  loudly  that  the 
prince  awoke.  At  first  he  seemed  to  take  them  for 
the  pilgrims  in  "Tannhauser,"  but  they  quickly  as- 
sured him  that  they  were  hunters,  that  they  came 
from  his  native  land,  that  his  father  was  dead,  and 
that  he  must  go  back  and  be  king.    He  received 


WORDS    FOR   MUSIC  13I 

the  news  with  emotion,  shook  hands  somewhat  per- 
functorily all  round,  and  promised  to  speak  to  his 
consort  on  the  matter.  With  a  view  to  this,  he 
walked  very  quickly  up  and  down  the  stage  for 
several  minutes  singing  "Where  art  thou?  Where 
art  thou?"  but  finding  his  efforts  unavailing  to 
fetch  her,  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep.  As  he 
would  not  go  to  his  consort's  palace,  his  consort's 
palace,  reversing  the  action  of  Mahomet's  moun- 
tain, came  to  him.  The  rocks  opened  and  it  ap- 
peared in  all  its  gorgeousness.  The  portent  did  not, 
of  course,  awake  him,  but  his  consort  did,  and  re- 
ceived the  news  of  his  impending  departure  with 
indignation.  None  the  less,  he  went.  Whereupon 
his  consort,  who  was  a  woman  of  determination, 
ordered  in  a  large  ornamental  swing-boat,  got  into 
it  with  two  friends,  and  was  hoisted  up  into  the  flies : 
so  that  she  was  presently  seen  no  more. 

The  curtain  next  rises  on  his  native  city,  which 
is  just  being  assaulted  by  the  enemy.  His  high- 
spirited  sister  is  promenading  the  battlements  in 
a  dccoUetee  suit  of  armour.  The  king  arrives,  and 
great  joy  is  felt.  But  joy  is  changed  to  consterna- 
tion when  his  consort  strides  on  to  the  stage  from 
behind  a  convenient  bastion.  To  mark  her  sense 
of  his  desertion,  she  suddenly  produces  the  two 
children  from  somewhere  (they  could  not  possibly 
have  been  concealed  in  the  swing-boat),  breaks  oflf 
some  yards  of  battlement,  changes  all  the  back 
scene  into  a  lurid  wall  of  fire,  and  flings  the  children 
over  into  the  flames.     To  the  father,  inefficient  at 


132  THINGS    SEEN 

the  best  of  times,  this  came  as  a  heavy  blow :  he 
fell  at  her  feet  in  speechless  horror  and  submission. 
So  she  opened  a  postern  gate  in  the  city  wall,  and 
there  they  were,  as  lively  as  ever  (which  was  not 
much  to  say),  toddling  on  to  the  stage  again.  At 
this  point  the  excitement  of  the  chorus  became  so 
intense  that  it  went  out  for  a  minute  or  two  and 
defeated  the  enemy.  When  it  returned  it  found  the 
king  still  grovelling  at  his  consort's  feet.  To  show 
him  what  he  had  lost  in  deserting  Fairyland,  she 
was  still  doing  wonderful  tricks  with  the  scenery. 
After  which  she  and  her  two  attendant  fays  disap- 
peared contemptuously  down  a  trap-door,  and  the 
king,  tired  out  by  such  trivialities,  went  to  sleep 
just  where  he  was.  He  had  not  slept  a  wink  for 
nearly  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

He  must  have  slept  for  some  time,  since  by  the 
beginning  of  the  next  act  his  sister  was  queen,  and 
had  bestowed  her  hand  upon  the  tallest  of  the 
chorus.  Suddenly  he  came  round  a  corner  into 
the  palace  and  saw  the  royal  procession  pass  by. 
For  a  moment  he  was  thunderstruck ;  but  seeing 
the  necessity  for  cool  and  wary  action,  he  pulled 
himself  together  and  went  to  sleep  on  the  steps  of 
the  throne.  They  were  covered  with  a  very  cheap 
linoleum,  but  anything  was  good  enough  for  him 
to  sleep  on.  Suddenly  the  two  attendant  fays  de- 
scended in  the  very  same  yellow  swing-boat;  they 
woke  him  up  and  called  his  attention  to  a  magic 
harp  and  sword  and  shield  beside  the  throne,  which 
he  had  not  previously  observed.     He  showed  no 


WORDS    FOR    MUSIC  133 

resentment  at  being  awakened,  and  the  three  went 
out  together.  The  next  scene  lay  in  Hell,  where  a 
furious  rout  of  the  Beasts  of  the  Apocalypse  was 
howling  and  dancing  uncouth  steps.  To  these  there 
entered  the  king  and  the  fays  through  the  rocky 
wall.  Hardly  had  he  time  to  ask,  "Do  you  know  if 
my  consort  is  here?"  ere  they  were  upon  him  all. 
But  he  behaved  with  unusual  spirit,  and  drew  his 
sword ;  the  monsters  maintained  the  unequal  fight 
for  a  few  bars,  until  one  of  them  got  pricked  with 
the  brand,  on  which  they  were  dispirited  and  went 
away.  Then  the  scene  changed  to  another  room 
in  the  same,  where  a  squad  of  recruits  was  being 
drilled.  The  king  and  fays  appeared  as  usual  and 
asked  the  usual  question  ;  the  squad  formed  a  Mace- 
donian phalanx  and  advanced  upon  him.  He  re- 
treated till  he  could  retreat  no  farther;  then  it  oc- 
curred to  him  once  more  to  draw  the  sword,  on 
which  the  squad  departed.  Thereon  he  threw  away 
the  sword  and  began  to  play  the  harp.  The  expe- 
dient, imprudent  as  it  might  seem,  was  attended 
with  unexpected  success;  for  the  rocky  walls  of 
Hell  opened,  and  there  stood  his  consort,  smiling 
forgiveness.  And  behold!  he  fell  at  her  feet  as 
of  custom. 

Meanwhile,  the  walls  opened  wider  and  wider, 
disclosing  the  King  of  the  Fays,  surrounded  by  the 
Wifely-Ballet-Personal.  He  made  a  long  speech, 
concluding  with  the  blessed  assurance  that  the 
earthly  king  might  have  his  consort  and  be  a  fay — 
the  one  pursuit  in  life  for  which  he  was  thoroughly 


134  THINGS    SEEN 

fitted.  Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  It  became 
plain  that  the  King  of  the  Fays  was  sitting  on  the 
top  of  a  gigantic  epergne,  and  the  lower  bases  sud- 
denly began  to  rise  out  of  the  stage.  It  went  up 
and  up,  and  on  each  branch  sat  one  of  the  Wifely- 
Ballet-Personal.  Last  of  all  came  a  sort  of  triptych, 
with  a  long,  long  fay  in  the  middle,  and  the  two 
children,  one  on  each  side.  It  was  an  expansive 
moment.  The  father  embraced  them,  and  almost 
slept  for  joy.  Everyone  else  embraced  everybody, 
saving  only  those  on  the  epergne,  who  would  have 
fallen  off  if  they  had.  And  the  curtain  fell  on  the 
touching  scene  and  an  audience  greasy  with  tender 
satisfaction. 


THE    FUTILE   DON.i 

He  squares  his  elbows  at  high-table  to  the  most 
marvellous  of  entrees;  he  rolls  his  eyes  in  common- 
room  as  he  gulps  the  most  precious  of  ports.  And 
the  entrees  twist  him  with  indigestion  ;  the  wine 
laps  him  in  drowsiness.  He  crouches  over  his 
fender  in  May  and  catches  cold.  He  guts  Momm- 
sen's  'Staatsrecht'  for  his  lectures,  and  cannot  de- 
cipher his  notes.  He  reads  Tennyson,  and  forgets 
him  in  the  very  crisis  of  quotation.  He  talks  of 
this  and  that,  but  pre-eminently  of  this.  He  walks 
round  Godstow  or  Trumpington,  panting  and 
snatching  short  steps  like  a  girl.  He  kneels  down 
in  chapel,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands  to  shut 
out  the  undergraduates,  and  prays  God  to  be  de- 
livered from  all  heresy  and  schism.  You  would 
docket  him  as  the  pattern  of  important  futility. 
And  all  the  while  he  is  dead. 

Quite  dead,  and  there  are  hundreds  of  him  buried 
in  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  round  chapels.  His  col- 
leges are  castles  of  somnolence,  palisaded  off  from 
all  the  world  of  men  and  things.  Pass  through  the 
heavy  gate  in  front,  across  the  dead  silence  of  the 
court,  along  the  dark  passage,  up  the  dusty,  winding 
stairs,  and  you  have  yet  two  stout  doors  to  batter 
in  before  you  can  win  to  the  carpeted,  pictured  cell 

'  National  Observer,  May  20,  1893. 
135 


136  THINGS    SEEN 

where  he  has  dug  his  grave.  Slumbering  there,  he 
forgets  the  green  earth,  or  he  never  knew  it;  he 
takes  count  no  longer  of  time  or  of  his  own  self.  He 
might  cloze  inside  that  sepulchre  for  years,  and 
every  one  beyond  the  college  walls  be  none  the 
wiser  nor  the  sadder.  This  he  has  sometimes  been 
known  to  do ;  more  often  he  ambles  round  and 
round  his  world  of  shades,  from  chapel  to  lecture- 
room,  from  hall  to  common-room,  and  so  to  bed. 
Rarely  there  passes  over  his  cofifin  a  gust  from  the 
roaring  world  that  stirs  him  to  a  moment  of  gal- 
vanic life.  Some  bruit  of  impending  dislocation  in 
the  British  Empire  has  ere  now  dragged  him  out 
into  the  light  to  nod  away  an  hour  on  the  platform 
of  the  Guildhall  or  the  Corn  Exchange.  But,  for 
the  most  part,  he  is  too  thickly  incrusted  with  forms 
and  traditions  and  antiquities  to  take  note  of  reali- 
ties. Like  the  Glaucus  of  his  own  Plato,  he  is  so 
rankly  overgrown  with  shells  and  tangle  that  none 
on  earth  can  recognise  him  for  the  man  he  was. 

For  he  was  once  a  man,  nor  different  from  other 
men.  He  was  not  of  necessity  the  schoolboy  whom 
masters  wonder  at  because  he  knows  more  than 
they,  and  fags  laugh  at  because  they  know  much 
more  than  he.  Nor  was  he  always  the  pale  and 
studious  undergraduate,  not  reading  but  only  sluic- 
ing in  facts  in  the  vain  hope  of  watering  his  parched 
soul.  Not  but  he  who  would  become  a  Don  must 
sit  close  and  read  the  summer  through,  and  in  these 
modern  times  must  add  some  gloss  of  thought  to 
his  reading.     But  when  he  is  first  admitted  into 


THE    FUTILE    DON  137 

the  convent  he  may  still  flatter  himself  that  he  is  a 
man.  That  is  only  the  beginning.  For  in  the  scale 
of  creation  the  Don  ranks  between  the  man  and 
the  parson,  and  the  living  part  of  him  must  be  petri- 
fied ere  he  be  worthy  to  fold  his  legs  under  the  ma- 
hogany of  the  common  room.  The  process  of 
incrustation  begins  with  the  formula  which  binds 
him  to  guard  and  revere  the  statutes  of  his  college. 
For  a  moment  he  triumphs ;  he  has  entered  into 
the  palace  of  learning,  and  strains  his  eyes  to  take 
in  every  detail  of  its  gorgeousness.  Then  the  forms 
and  traditions  and  antiquities  grip  him,  they  spread 
their  arms  about  him :  and  he  stiffens  with  self- 
satisfaction  into  his  stalactitic  tomb.  Contact  with 
the  youth  he  is  to  educate  is  the  finish  of  it.  Not  a 
word,  not  a  deed,  may  issue  from  him  that  might 
cause  any  of  those  little  ones  to  offend.  Beginning 
by  sacrificing  his  body  to  what  he  holds  to  be  his 
mind,  he  cannot  but  end  by  sacrificing  his  mind 
to  what  others  take  for  his  morals. 

Among  the  inexorable  forces  that  close  round 
him  and  stifle  his  vital  part,  none  is  more  potent 
than  his  fellows.  The  Eternal-Donly  acts  and 
reacts.  Set  a  Don,  even  a  Don  of  long  standing, 
down  in  London  or  Paris  alone,  and  he  might  yet 
attain  again  to  humanity.  It  is  the  conventicle 
of  Dons  that  fosters  the  academic  death  and  lays 
its  cold  hand  on  every  new-comer.  Go  into  a 
college  in  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  you  will  see 
men  who  have  known  each  other  and  disliked 
each   other   since   they   were   twenty — some  since 


138  THINGS    SEEN 

they  were  ten.  Each  knows  the  other's  weaknesses 
well  enough  to  detest  them,  but  not  well  enough 
to  despise  them.  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  ruled 
by  the  dread  of  the  Sneer.  Every  one  knows 
your  foibles,  and  he  has  known  them  so  long  that 
he  only  waits  a  chance  to  make  a  by-word  of  them. 
So  the  ambition  of  the  Don  is  wholly  fulfilled  when 
he  can  sit  in  his  carved  oak  stall  in  chapel  and 
thank  God  he  is  as  other  Dons  are.  They  are 
all  cut  to  a  dead  level.  In  Cambridge  you  are 
despised  if  you  know  anything,  in  Oxford  if  you 
do  not  know  everything.  In  Oxford  you  must 
smile  on  your  bitterest  enemy  as  he  insults  you; 
in  Cambridge  you  must  turn  your  back  at  table 
on  your  friend  when  he  begins  his  most  amusing 
story.  To  write  anything  more  than  a  school-book 
is  ruin,  for  it  is  to  be  sent  naked  to  the  Sneer 
omnipotent.  For  he  that  finds  some  other  outlet 
for  himself  except  the  mere  being  a  Don  is  assur- 
edly fair  game  for  the  clumsiest.  So  conversation, 
emasculated  already  by  the  fear  of  the  under- 
graduate, rises  to  the  sublime  inanity  of  an  old- 
maids'  tea-party :  one  learned  man  of  sixty  leaning 
over  the  table  to  another,  and  saying,  "Do  you 
know — it  has  just  occurred  to  me — there  are  four 
past  or  present  Queen's  men  all  sitting  together 
at  high-table?" 

The  Don  recognizes  the  existence  of  women  only 
when  he  marries  them.  This  privilege  was  an  in- 
novation, and  the  genuine  Don  marks  his  sense 
of  that  degradation  of  learning  by  being  very  rude 


THE   FUTILE   DON  139 

to  the  daughters  of  his  married  colleague.  Those 
daughters  spend  their  early  years  in  wondering 
what  song  the  sirens  sung;  till  at  thirty-five  they 
drown  their  sorrow's  in  the  violin.  The  young 
Don  is  much  put  about  when  he  takes  one  of  these 
foreign  devils  down  to  dinner.  One  who  had 
blushed  and  stuttered  more  even  than  usual  (in 
common-room  he  was  made  a  mark  of  for  doing 
something  more  than  usual)  was  found  behind  a 
curtain,  laughing  fit  to  die  that  he  should  be  set 
to  talk  with  so  strange  a  monster.  But  it  must 
be  said  in  his  defence  that  the  Don  often  looks 
on  the  man  of  the  world  with  a  very  good-humoured 
tolerance.  There  is  always  the  charitable  possibil- 
ity that  if  he  had  been  entombed  for  thirty  years 
inside  a  college  he  might  have  made  a  very  donly 
Don  after  all.  But  that  is  no  excuse  for  the 
Don  who  tries  to  be  a  man  of  the  world :  for  he 
is  only  saved  by  the  fact  that  he  never  by  any  devil- 
ishness  succeeds. 


AT  TWENTY-FOUR.  1 

He  who  stops  to  take  account  of  his  journey 
through  hfe  must  needs  suppose  to  himself  that 
he  stands  on  an  eminence.  He  can  trace  the  path 
by  which  he  has  come,  and  through  the  tangle  ahead 
fancy  will  ever  thread  him  a  descent  not  wholly  hard 
or  hazardous.  With  twenty-four,  or  with  seventy, 
it  is  as  with  thirty.  Halt  anywhere  to  look  back  or 
forwards,  and  the  vistas  of  recollection  will  conspire 
with  the  haze  of  forecast,  till  you  will  tell  yourself 
past  and  future  lie  mapped  at  your  feet.  Still,  at 
what  point  you  will,  the  illusion  must  be  similar. 
That  is  inexorable  necessity;  weakness  dwells  in 
halting  at  all.  Unprofitable  curiosity  for  the  past 
is  the  complement  of  weak-kneed  irresolution  for 
the  future.  Seventy,  or  thirty,  or  twenty-four,  the 
same  unwholesomeness  marks  the  state  when  this 
timorous  circumspection  takes  hold  of  a  man.  I, 
that  am  twenty-four,  know  myself  for  a  coward  in 
this,  as  certainly  as  I  perceive  and  would  pillory  the 
cowardice  of  thirty.  I  know  it,  and  am  ashamed. 
But  while  my  cowardice  is  the  same,  my  excuse 
is  by  far  the  greater.  For  I  see — wherein  I  dis- 
play myself  hardy  and  unashamed  on  my  mountain 
of  cloudS' — that  I  am  come  to  the  end  of  the  best 
stretch  of  my  Hfe,  and  stand  at  the  outset  of  the 

^  National    Observer,  January   6,    1894. 
140 


AT   TWENTY-FOUR  141 

very  worst.  Till  to-day  I  was  a  mere  irresponsible 
offshoot  from  human  society.  From  to-day  I  am 
a  young-  man  officially,  so  to  put  it,  and  in  dreary 
earnest.  I  am  come  into  rank  with  the  world — 
in  the  rear  rank,  maybe,  but  with  the  untiring  ne- 
cessity of  marching  forvvard  and  keeping  step.  Till 
now  I  sauntered  pleasantly  on  the  skirts  of  the 
army,  went  back  and  forward  arm-in-arm  with  my 
fancy,  and  snapped  my  fingers  at  the  solemn  pha- 
lanx of  serious  men.  From  now  the  world  will 
regard  me,  too,  seriously,  and,  for  a  humiliation 
ten  thousand  times  more  abject,  I  must  so  regard 
myself. 

From  now  I  must  learn  and  adjust,  correct  and 
systematise.  Before  I  was  a  fool,  confessed  and 
chartered ;  but  the  folly  of  the  fool  has  at  least 
a  laughing  ease  with  it,  where  the  folly  of  the 
wise  man  is  as  ridiculous  and  stiffly  unconscious 
to  boot.  When  I  was  not  on  terms  with  the 
working  world,  I  could  claim  from  it  neither  com- 
fort, nor  honour,  nor  respect,  nor  even  so  much  as 
acquaintance.  But  what  was  that  to  me?  What 
if  one  of  the  serried  regiments  jostled  me,  so  long 
as  I  could  jostle  any  and  all  of  them  at  will? 
Were  they  magnificently  unconscious  of  my  being? 
That  was  the  very  thing  I  coveted  from  them  most 
of  all.  Yet,  in  truth,  I  coveted  nothing  of  them, 
and  as  little  of  myself.  Passion  might  clash  with 
reason ;  physical  soundness  might  break  itself  on 
will;  what  was  that  to  me?  I  was  sucked  dry, 
like  an  orange,  by  one  woman's  kiss.     I  lost  the 


142  THINGS   SEEN 

friend  of  all  my  years  for  a  laugh ;  I  flung  away 
the  holiest  of  sanctions  for  a  dram.  But  what  of 
that?  I  was  no  master  of  my  passions,  but  no 
slave  either :  I  was  their  brother,  of  one  heart  and 
mind  with  them.  We  blew  in  companionship  where 
we  listed.  If  I  did  not  appear  vulgarly  debauched, 
I  was  not  the  less  drunk  with  a  dizzy  revel  of  im- 
morality. There  stood  no  law,  no  obligation,  out- 
side or  in.  But  if  duty  was  trampled  under  foot, 
there  rose  up  in  its  place  the  god  of  a  most  high 
and  passionate  pride.  As  the  world  vanished  into 
the  background,  I  stood  out  the  more,  clear  cut, 
triumphing.  For  myself  there  was  no  rule ;  for 
my  dealings  with  the  world  pride  dictated  the  condi- 
tions. Nothing  unworthy  of  the  absolute  worship 
in  which  I  held  myself,  nothing  untrue,  untrust- 
worthy, insincere,  disloyal  was  good  enough  for 
such  a  libertine  anarch  as  I  was.  That  was  the  one 
regulator,  and  it  was  enough.  I  was  uncurbed, 
happy,  justified  of  my  being.  The  pedantry  of 
nascent  generalisation  I  had  outlived ;  the  pedantry 
of  moral  valetudinarianism  was  yet  to  come.  And 
so  I  drank  draughts  out  of  the  spring  of  life,  and 
knew  not  what  I  did.  I  spread  and  strengthened 
every  way  without  plan,  and  pursued  the  true  life  of 
man  without  the  labour  and  the  degradation  of  test- 
ing its  truth. 

But  on  pride  follows  Nemesis.  As  the  one  moral 
idea,  the  overmastering  I,  waxed  and  exalted,  reflec- 
tion and  calculation  grew  up  like  mildew  all  about 
it.    Since  I  was  I,  and  so  all-important,  the  cursed 


AT  TWENTY-FOUR  143 

years  brought  in  the  slow  persuasion  that  I  must 
be  economised.  There  was  a  resistless  call  to  make 
the  most  of  this  unique  treasure.  And  so  I  drifted 
on  to  the  threshold  of  analysis  and  regulation,  of 
system  and  moderation,  and  all  the  ossified  pru- 
dences of  Thirty.  And  yet  it  is  not  the  system  I 
contemn,  but  the  systcmatising.  If  a  man  could 
but  run  under  ground  at  twenty-four  and  come 
up  again  at  fifty !  Then  he  would  see  his  spirit- 
ual experience,  his  hoard  of  things  done  and  left 
undone,  complete  around  him.  To  extend  here, 
to  dock  there,  would  be  the  matter  of  but  one  syn- 
optic moment.  But  the  tentative  culture  of  the 
soul,  the  faltering  experiment,  the  shocked  recoil, 
the  cold  calculating  pusillanimity  of  middle  age, — 
there  is  the  abject  anticipation  for  the  next  years. 
Already  Thirty  knocks  at  my  heart  and  rattles  in 
my  chest.  And  in  the  wider  sphere  the  pitiless 
web  of  relations  is  wrapping  me  noiselessly  in. 
I  know  well  in  what  form  it  will  come.  Have  I 
not  once  already  been  vanquished?  Tense  for  con- 
quest, I  held  the  white  girl  limp  in  my  arms  but 
a  day  or  two  ago ;  like  a  fool  I  deluded  myself  into 
sparing  her  helplessness.  What  was  that  but  the 
first  treason,  the  first  step  on  to  the  decline?  It  is 
no  reverence  for  the  laws,  so  I  apologised  then  to 
myself;  but  here  there  are  particular  respects.  Re- 
member place  and  time.  It  is  no  duty,  but  a  grace. 
But  next  time  it  will  be  more  a  duty ;  soon  a  duty 
outright.     Taking   cowardice   yesterday   for  soft- 


144  THINGS    SEEN 

heartedness,  I  shall  end  at  thirty  by  believing  it 
virtue. 

So  stand  I  on  the  chill  brink  of  young  senility, 
and  shiver  to  the  irrevocable  plunge. 


A  FABLE  OF  JOURNALISTS,  i 

Now  as  I  went  I  came  on  a  monstrous  wood,  that 
grew  round  the  skirts  of  a  high  mountain.  Out 
of  its  terraces  of  rolHng  green  the  peak  shot  up 
clear  into  the  sunlight,  mottled  with  pastures  and 
vineyards,  and  veined  with  shining  streams  that 
twinkled  down  it.  And  there  .beaconed  from  the 
very  top  a  light  most  dazzling  in  its  whiteness ; 
but  what  it  was,  and  whence  it  came,  I  could  not 
see  for  the  brightness  of  it.  Being  come  nearer, 
I  was  aware  of  a  hoarse  roar,  as  if  a  great  crowd  of 
men  and  women  were  fighting  among  themselves 
for  dear  life,  and  all  the  while  cursing  and  praying, 
shouting  and  groaning  and  shrieking.  And  pres- 
ently, coming  yet  nearer,  and  the  noise  getting  ever 
louder  and  more  urgent,  so  that  now  and  again 
some  voice  or  another  broke  away  from  the  mass 
and  floated  distinct  to  the  ear,  my  eyes  lit  on  a 
great  marvel.  Lsaw  that  the  wood  was  fenced  all 
about  with  a  tall  and  sturdy  hedge,  thickset  with 
most  poignant  thorns  of  the  length  of  a  man's 
finger.  At  the  entry  of  the  wood,  along  all  the 
sweep  of  the  bank  as  far  as  I  could  see  on  either 
hand,  there  in  very  deed  was  a  mad  tangle  of  men 
and  women,  all  struggling  together  and  surging 
furiously  up  against  the  hedge.     Those  that  were 

^  The    National    Observer,    June   24,    1893. 
145 


146  THINGS   SEEN 

first  would  be  stabbed  by  the  thorns  and  shudder 
back,  screaming  and  whimpering;  but  they  would 
be  cast  aside  by  those  behind,  or  else  caught  in  the 
eddy  of  the  mob  and  flung  on  to  the  pricks  again. 
There  were  folk,  too,  on  the  far  side  of  the 
hedge,  but  not  many;  and  it  was  plain  to  see  that 
each  man  of  those  without  recked  of  nothing  else 
but  to  be  first  within  the  pale.  So  they  were  all  rush- 
ing forward  together,  hurling  themselves  into  the 
mass  to  part  it  and  to  make  a  way,  trampling  on 
such  as  had  fallen  until  the  blood  spurted  up  into 
their  faces.  And  they  clawed  at  the  throats  of  those 
before  and  beside  them,  to  pull  them  down  and 
pass  over  their  bodies,  and  leaped  madly  on  to  be 
gored  by  the  spikes,  both  men  and  women  implor- 
ing those  within  to  help  them  through  the  hedge. 
And  the  air  was  rent  with  oaths  and  entreaties,  and 
screams  of  rage  and  anguish,  and  the  most  hideous 
din  conceivable.  But  when  it  so  happened  that 
one  burst  through,  he  would  stand  an  instant  in 
the  gap  and  fight  the  others  back  :  longer  he  needed 
not,  for  the  thorn-branches  never  broke,  but  bent 
and  then  swung  back  tougher  and  pricklier  than 
ever. 

When  I  saw  these  things  I  stood  a  space  stock- 
still  with  the  horror  of  it.  Then  coming  again  to  my- 
self, and  running  up  to  an  old  man  who  was  sitting 
by  the  roadside  a  little  way  from  the  crowd,  "What, 
in  God's  name,"  I  cried,  "are  these  lunatics  doing?" 
He,  mopping  the  blood  from  a  rent  in  his  neck, 
answered :    "This  is  the  Forest  of  Scribes,  wherein 


A    FABLE    OF   JOURNALISTS  147 

are  the  things  that  the  heart  of  man  most  desires — 
drink  and  gold.  And  the  peak  above  it  is  the  Mount 
of  Letters,  to  which  the  way  lies  up  through  the 
wood.  There  is,  indeed,  another  road  on  the  other 
side,  but  in  that  part  the  steep  is  guarded  by  a 
deep  and  rushing  river,  and  the  ferrymen  exact  a 
great  price.  I,  too,  was  hot  to  win  to  the  Mount, 
as  all  these  are,  and,  being  poor,  I  have  been  striv- 
ing at  the  barrier  these  many  years ;  but  I  came 
by  a  hurt  on  the  spikes."  None  the  less,  he  sprang 
up  as  he  spoke  and  went  at  the  hedge  again  like  one 
demented.  Therewith,  myself  catching  the  frenzy, 
and  thinking  that  there  must  surely  be  some  rare 
thing  to  be  had  on  the  Mount  since  so  many  were 
gone  mad  about  it,  I  sprang  after  him  into  the 
medley.  Twice  in  that  sweating  hell  I  went  near 
to  be  crushed  to  death,  and  once  I  felt  the  thorns. 
But,  as  it  fell  out,  I  saw  by  me  a  young  man  who 
had  just  made  a  gap  in  the  quick-set,  and  behind 
him,  without  more  ado,  I  slipped  in;  for  he,  as  it 
seemed,  was  going  in,  like  myself,  not  for  the  gold 
or  drink,  nor  yet  to  get  up  to  the  Mount  of  Letters, 
since  he  could  easily  have  paid  the  toll  on  the  other 
side,  but  only  for  a  fancy  he  had  to  see  the  wood. 
Therefore  he  held  me  the  boughs  apart  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  the  branches  whipped  to  again  behind, 
and  I  heard  one  howling  piteously  on  the  thorns. 

So  I  came  into  the  Forest  of  Scribes.  And  at 
what  I  saw  there  I  was  yet  more  astonished  than 
at  what  passed  outside.  For  the  trees  grew  so  clus- 
tered together  that  their  branches  were  all  tangled 


148  THINGS    SEEN 

and  knotted  and  enmeshed,  and  the  heavy  leaves 
choked  what  sunbeams  might  try  to  struggle  in. 
So  that  thick  blackness  fell  about  me  like  a  cloak, 
and  for  a  while  I  could  see  nothing,  but  stumbled 
on  blindly  over  the  matted  roots.  It  was  darker 
than  any  night,  and  there  were  no  paths,  nor  was 
there  any  light  to  trace  them  by  if  there  had  been. 
Now  that  wood  is  so  huge  and  mazy  that,  once 
inside,  a  man  might  almost  be  dead  and  buried 
for  any  chance  there  is  that  he  can  find  his  way 
out  again.  It  is  full  of  dingles  and  gullies,  so  that 
it  is  impossible  to  go  through  by  following  the 
trend  of  the  ground.  And  in  every  corner,  though 
I  could  not  see,  I  heard  men  and  women,  the 
strangest  medleyi — high  and  low,  rich  and  poor, 
young  and  old,  dull  and  ingenious — none  could  tell 
how  many,  nor  what  they  did,  nor  whither  they 
were  going,  nor  why.  I  heard  voices  of  folk  run- 
ning up  and  down  belated,  some  calling  out  to  know- 
whereabouts  was  the  Mount  of  Letters,  where  the 
sunlight  was ;  and  all  the  time  prating  of  something 
else — laws  and  trading  and  mummery  and  chififons 
and  all  the  silly  and  outlandish  things  in  the  world. 
But  the  wonder  of  wonders  was  to  perceive  how 
the  very  men  that  at  the  hedge  had  been  so  furi- 
ously enamoured  of  the  Mount  of  Letters,  when  they 
got  in,  began  to  falter.  And  the  cause  of  it  was  this. 
First,  the  horrid  gloom  and  confusion,  no  man 
knowing  whether  or  no  his  face  were  set  toward 
the  Mount.  Second,  as  my  eyes  drank  in  the  dark, 
and  were  able  to  peer  a  little  ahead,  I  saw  that  the 


A   FABLE    OF   JOURNALISTS  149 

gold  of  which  the  old  man  had  spoken  was  hidden 
underground.  Every  man  was  bound  to  dig  up  his 
tale  of  pieces,  else  he  was  swiftly  conveyed  away 
out  of  the  wood  by  sideways  that  there  were  into 
a  pit  where  he  presently  perished.  So  the  scribes 
were  all  scooping  up  the  mire  with  fouled  fingers, 
some  reluctant,  some  greedy.  Also,  there  was  tlie 
drink  that  lay  all  about  in  pools :  I  could  see  from 
the  shimmer  of  it  in  the  dusk  that  it  was  stagnant 
and  noisome.  Whoever  drank  of  it  forgot  little  by 
little  all  that  he  had  set  his  heart  on  before,  and 
was  content  to  lie  down  and  gulp  and  gulp  it  till 
he  ceased  even  to  grub  for  gold,  and  was  borne 
away  in  the  end  to  the  pit.  These  three  things  there 
were  that  seduced  such  as  would  climb  the  Peak 
(for  there  were  some  there  that  cared  nothing  for 
it,  and  only  went  in  for  the  gold),  and  in  the  end 
it  transfigured  them  out  of  all  knowledge.  They 
grew  hideous  to  look  on :  their  eyes  were  bleared, 
so  that  they  would  have  been  dazed  and  pricked 
by  the  Light  of  the  Mount  even  had  they  come 
thither,  and  they  tottered  for  weakness.  One  by 
one  the  seekers  left  groping  in  the  dizzy  wood 
and  came  to  rejoice  and  hug  themselves  in  the 
filthiness  of  the  gold  and  the  stench  of  the  pools. 
Some  there  were  that  lay  down  less  from  love  of 
it  than  for  weariness  and  mere  heartlessness.  These 
made  bitter  complaint  of  their  ill-luck,  since  they 
were  still  hungry  for  the  Light.  One  of  them, 
who  was  no  more  than  a  young  boy,  I  heard  crying 
aloud :    "Curses  on  this  beastly  Forest  of  Scribes 


I50  THINGS    SEEN 

and  the  gold  and  the  drink,  and  curses  before  all 
on  my  own  misery  and  folly  that  ever  thought  to 
gain  the  Mount  thereby ;"  and  therewith  he  smote 
himself  on  the  breast  two  or  three  times,  and  fell 
to  drinking  again.  Though  for  the  most  part  they 
cursed  not  themselves,  but  only  the  labyrinth.  Some 
few  had  attained  to  the  Mount  more  by  happiness 
than  deserving  (said  they),  but  I  saw  none.  For 
the  rest,  there  they  were  and  there  they  miserably 
remained,  hating  the  muck  and  putridity,  but  never 
able  to  get  quit  of  it,  feebleness  and  blindness  ever 
creeping  faster  on  them,  knowing  not  in  what  part 
of  the  wood  they  were,  nor  whether  they  were  jour- 
neying back  or  forward,  nor  yet  anything  else  but 
that  they  were  undone  for  ever,  and  that  through 
their  own  unwisdom. 

But  why  they  so  longed  to  scale  the  Mount  of 
Letters,  and  whether  or  not,  wood  or  no  wood, 
they  could  ever  have  come  up  to  it,  and  what  was 
the  bright  light  I  saw  atop  of  it,  though  I  inquired 
of  many,  there  was  no  man  of  them  all  could 
tell  me. 


THE  DREYFUS  CASE. 
I. 

SCENES   AND   ACTORS   IN   THE   TRIAL.' 

"Your  name?"  asked  the  president  of  the  court- 
martial. 

"Alfred  Dreyfus." 

"Profession?" 

"Captain  of  artillery." 

"Age?" 

"Thirty-nine  years." 

With  these  three  common  phrases  he  broke  the 
silence  of  four  and  a  half  years.  Nothing  could  be 
more  formal,  and  yet  here,  in  the  first  five  minutes 
of  the  trial,  was  summed  up  the  most  incredibly 
romantic  histor}'  ever  recorded.  Alfred  Dreyfus — 
five  years  ago  scarcely  anybody  knew  there  was 
such  a  name  as  Dreyfus  in  the  Avorld ;  now  the 
leading  comic  singer  of  Paris,  who  was  born  with 
it,  has  had  to  change  it  because  it  is  too  embarrass- 
ingly famous!  Captain  of  artillery — and  generals 
who  have  led  armies  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy 
have  lost  their  commands  because  of  him !  Thirty- 
nine  years — and  here  were  men  who  were  known 
before  he  was  born  staking  their  ripe  reputations 
for  or  against  him !    The  only  living  ex-chief  of  the 

*  M'Clure's    Magazine,    October    1899. 
151 


152  THINGS    SEEN 

state  in  which  he  was  a  simple  unit ;  five  successive 
heads,  and  nine  generals  besides,  of  the  army  in 
which  he  was  an  unregarded  subordinate ;  the  min- 
ister who  for  years  has  conducted  foreign  rela- 
tions in  which  he  could  never  have  dreamed  of  figur- 
ing,— all  were  there  because  he  was.  Novelists  like 
Prevost  and  Mirbeau,  poets  like  Maurice  Barres, 
philosophers  like  Max  Nordau,  French  journalists 
like  Arthur  Meyer  and  Cornely,  foreign  journalists 
whose  names  are  familiar  as  far  away  as  Helsingfors 
and  San  Francisco, — they  had  all  come  to  see  him. 
There  were  men  like  Picquart  and  Lebrun-Renault, 
nobodies  when  last  he  saw  them,  now  famous  by 
reason  of  an  accidental  connection  with  him.  Most 
dramatic  of  all,  there  was  a  little,  close-veiled 
woman  in  black — Madame  Henry,  a  woman  he  had 
never  seen,  widow  of  a  man  whom  he  never  knew, 
yet  who  had  risen  to  celebrity  and  fallen  to  an  in- 
famous death  because  of  him. 

What  did  he  think  of  such  a  miracle?  To  all 
appearances  he  did  not  think  of  it  at  all :  he  was 
concentrating  all  the  energies  of  a  mind  starved  for 
five  years  on  the  answers  he  would  presently  make 
to  the  charges  against  him.  Perhaps  that  was  as 
well  for  him.  For  had  he  thought  a  moment,  he 
would  have  seen  that  he,  the  most  famous  man  in 
the  world,  was  at  the  same  time  the  most  insignifi- 
cant person  in  the  court.  He  supposed  they  were 
there  to  try  him ;  they  were  not.  To  him  it  was 
everything  whether  he  left  his  prison  a  free  man  or 
a  doubly  damned  convict  for  the  Devil's  Island; 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  153 

it  was  nothing  to  them.  He  was  simply  something 
for  them  to  fight  over — a  Homeric  carcass  round 
which  had  ralHed  lieroes  and  demi-gods  to  hack 
and  stab  at  each  other.  On  one  side  were  the  army, 
the  church,  the  aristocracy;  on  the  other  the  civil 
law,  the  anti-military  proletariat.  Protestantism, 
and  the  Jews.  The  prize  of  the  struggle  was  not 
Alfred  Dreyfus,  Captain  of  artillery,  but  France. 

To  the  English  eye  it  all  looked  like  what  it  was 
— a  public  meeting  rather  than  a  court  of  law. 
An  English  court  is  almost  ostentatiously  grim  and 
business-like.  The  room  is  small  and  none  too 
light ;  the  walls  bare,  unless  a  plan  should  be  hung 
on  them  to  illustrate  an  argument.  The  judge  sits 
on  the  bench — a  nose,  mouth,  and  chin  appearing 
out  of  his  white  wig — like  a  silent  sphinx.  Lawyers 
drone  and  mumble.  Witnesses  stumble  over  mono- 
syllables. The  impression  is  one  of  hush  and  dim- 
ness— man  suppressed,  but  the  awful  majesty  of  the 
law  brooding  over  all.  But  this  court-martial  in  the 
Hall  of  the  Lycee  was  utterly  different.  The  room 
was  large  enough  for  a  lecture  or  orchestral  con- 
cert, which  is  exactly  what  it  is  used  for.  With 
two  rows  of  large  windows  at  each  side — square 
in  the  lower  tier,  circular  in  the  upper — it  was  al- 
most as  light  as  the  day  outside.  The  walls  were 
coloured  a  cheerful  bufif;  round  the  cornice  were 
emblazoned  the  names  of  Chateaubriand,  Lamen- 
nais,  Renan,  and  the  intellectuals  of  Brittany.  At 
the  top  of  the  room  was  a  stage ;  hanging  on  its 
back  wall  the  white  Christ  on  a  black  cross  pro- 


154  THINGS    SEEN 

claimed  the  place  a  court  of  justice — only  instead  of 
the  solemn  sphinx  in  black,  there  sat  at  a  table  seven 
ofificers  in  full  uniform.  In  the  centre  was  the 
president,  Colonel  Jouaust,  a  little  old  gentleman 
with  dark  hair,  eye-glasses,  and  a  huge  white  mous- 
tache that  seemed  part  of  the  same  stuff  as  the  tall 
white  aigrette  in  his  kepi  on  the  table  before  him. 
On  each  side  sat  three  ofificers — four  small  and  two 
heavy  men,  in  the  black,  red-faced  uniform  of  the 
artillery ;  their  kepis  rlso — tricolor  for  the  senior 
ofificers,  red  for  the  junior — edged  the  judicial  table 
with  a  line  of  colour.  Behind,  there  sat  some  other 
ofificers,  the  supplementary  judges.  On  a  small 
tribune  to  the  left  of  the  stage  sat  three  more,  the 
prosecuting  commissary  of  the  government  and 
two  ofificers  of  the  court.  Opposite,  on  our  right, 
was  a  similar  tribune,  but  a  new  costume — four  men 
in  black  gowns  with  one  flap  and  one  streamer 
edged  with  white  fur,  white  muslin  bands  round 
the  neck,  and  a  high  black  cap  like  a  priest's  biretta. 
These  were  Dreyfus's  two  counsel  and  their  assist- 
ants. Below  them  on  a  chair  sat  Dreyfus  himself, 
an  olificer  of  gendarmes  at  short  arm's  length  be- 
hind him.  Right  in  front  of  the  president  was  a 
chair  for  the  witnesses.  These  and  the  reporters 
thronged  the  forward  part  of  the  hall — generals 
with  crimson,  gold-brimmed  kepis,  and  with  rib- 
bons and  stars  on  their  breasts;  civilians  in  black 
and  brown  and  grey,  tall  hats,  stifif  hats,  soft  felt 
hats  elaborately  arranged  into  the  shape  of  a  hay- 
cock, pince-nes  with  broad  black  ribbons,  drooping 


THE   DREYFUS   CASE  155 

green  silk  neckcloths  with  fringes — in  a  word, 
French  dress.  In  the  middle  of  it  shone  the  silks 
and  feathers  of  the  reporters  of  the  'Fronde,'  the 
woman's  paper  of  Paris,  which  does  not  employ 
a  single  man.  Sprinkled  everywhere  were  the  blue 
and  white  uniforms  of  gendarmes  with  sword  and 
revolver;  along  the  back  of  the  hall  twinkled  the 
red  and  blue  and  steel  of  an  infantry  force  with 
fixed  bayonets.  You  might  have  taken  it  for  a 
political  meeting,  or  an  assault  at  arm.s,  or  a  fancy 
ball — or  anything  except  a  trial. 

The  witnesses  assisted  the  impression.  Each  was 
brought  in  by  a  door  beside  the  stage,  came  before 
the  president,  and  raised  his  hand  to  the  crucifix  as 
he  swore  to  tell  the  truth,  all  the  truth.  The  presi- 
dent asks  him  what  he  knows  of  the  affair.  And 
then — and  then  he  embarks  in  a  pretentious  speech, 
written  out  in  whole  or  part  beforehand.  Some- 
times it  is  interspersed  with  original  documents, 
v/hich  are  handed  up  to  be  read  by  the  registrar  of 
the  court.  For  the  manner  of  the  speeches,  the 
politicians  stand  upright,  declaiming,  waving  their 
hands  at  the  president,  as  if  they  were  asking  the 
suffrages  of  their  fellow-citizens :  the  soldiers  usu- 
ally sit  and  murmur  confidences  into  the  Colonel's 
ear.  But  for  the  matter,  it  is  always  the  same — 
the  speaker's  self.  Dreyfus's  case  is  mentioned,  no 
doubt,  but  merely  as  a  thread  to  hang  together  the 
witness's  first  impressions  of  the  case ;  what  he  did 
to  correct  or  confirm  them ;  what  view  he  takes  of 
the  importance  of  this  document  or  the  interpreta- 


156  THINGS    SEEN 

tion  of  that;  what  view  he  took  of  the  international 
situation  in  1894,  and  what  measures  then  suggested 
themselves  to  his  mind ;  what  he  said  to  General  A., 
and  what  Major  B.  told  him  that  Captain  C.  had 
said  to  Lieutenant  D.  "This  is  at  fourth  hand,  it  is 
true,"  he  will  ingenuously  add;  "still  it  should  be 
allowed  its  relative  value."  Hours  are  spent  in 
repeating  at  second  and  third  hand  the  evidence 
of  witnesses  who  in  a  day  or  two  are  to  be  heard 
themselves.  It  seems  no  part  of  the  president's 
business  to  guide  the  inquiry:  if  he  wishes  for  in- 
formation on  any  point,  he  must  wait  half  a  day, 
till  the  witness  has  exhausted  the  subject  of  his 
past  life  and  opinions.  Cross-examination  fails  to 
drag  the  case  out  of  the  rut,  for  the  moment  the 
lawyer  asks  a  question — prefixing,  of  course,  a  brief 
speech  of  his  own — the  witness  is  ofif  again,  to  the 
same  tune,  like  a  re-wound  musical  box.  While  he 
is  speaking,  the  cross-examiner  is  composing  his 
next  oration  ;  during  that,  the  witness  is  composing 
his  ;  and  so  on  for  days. 

Here  is  an  example  of  French  methods  of  taking 
evidence.  The  officer  who  was  with  Dreyfus  on  the 
day  of  his  degradation.  Captain  Lebrun-Renault, 
has  asserted  that  the  condemned  man  made  a  con- 
fession. A  confession,  of  course,  is  evidence  every- 
where. But  everybody  knows  that  false  confes- 
sions of  crime  are  not  rare;  therefore,  in  English 
law,  even  a  confession  requires  confirmation.  In 
this  case  the  confession  is  disputed.  Captain  Le- 
brun-Renault wrote  in  his  diary  that  Dreyfus  said, 


THE   DREYFUS   CASE  157 

"The  Minister  knows  well  that,  if  I  gave  up  docu- 
ments, they  were  worthless,  and  that  it  was  to  get 
more  important  ones  for  them."  On  another  occa- 
sion he  said  "had  given  up,"  instead  of  "gave  up." 
Dreyfus,  interrogated  on  the  Devil's  Island  by  the 
President  of  the  Court  of  Appeal  of  Cayenne,  said 
that  he  said,  "The  Minister  knows  well  that  I  am 
innocent.  He  sent  du  Paty  de  Clam  to  ask  me  if 
I  had  not  given  up  some  important  documents  to 
get  others  in  exchange  for  them."  It  is  not  pre- 
tended that  anybody  else  heard  what  Dreyfus  said. 
Yet  almost  every  witness  has  discussed  this  alleged 
confession.  First,  the  president  questioned  Dreyfus 
himself  on  it.  Dreyfus  denied  it.  Next,  M.  Casimir- 
Perier  deposed  that  Captain  Lebrun-Renault  had 
said  nothing  about  the  matter  to  him.  Next,  Gen- 
eral Mercier  deposed  that  he  told  Captain  Lebrun- 
Renault  to  tell  M.  Casimir-Perier  about  it.  Next, 
these  two  witnesses  were  heard  in  "confrontation," 
as  they  call  it — that  is,  standing  up  side  by  side  and 
contradicting  each  other's  statements.  The  ex-Min- 
ister  of  War  said  that  General  Gonse  heard  him 
tell  the  Captain  to  tell  the  President ;  the  ex-Presi- 
dent said  that  M.  Dupuy  had  told  him  that  Captain 
Lebrun-Renault  did  not  tell  him  (Dupuy)  that  he 
told  him  (Casimir-Perier).  M.  Cavaignac  went  into 
the  same  incident  at  great  length.  He  said  that 
General  Gonse  wrote  to  him  that  Captain  Lebrun- 
Renault  told  him  (Gonse)  that  he  (Lebrun-Renault) 
heard  Dreyfus  confess.  This  jungle  of  pronouns 
is  what  the  French  seem  to  call  evidence.     And 


158  THINGS    SEEN 

when  you  have  struggled  through  it,  you  hear  that 
Captain  Lebrun-Renault  is  to  be  called  himself  to 
give  his  own  evidence  in  Dreyfus's  presence  and  to 
be  cross-examined  upon  it.    What  a  trial ! 

It  is  incredible,  but  it  is  absolutely  true,  that  the 
first  four  days  of  the  public  trial  yielded  not  one  rag 
of  first-hand  evidence,  either  for  Dreyfus  or  against 
him.  In  that  time  eleven  witnesses  testified, — one 
ex-President,  four  ex-Ministers  of  War,  three  other 
ex-ministers,  a  diplomatist,  a  miscellaneous  general, 
and  the  widow  of  Henry,  the  forger, — and  all  testi- 
fied simply  about  themselves.  What  they  said  we 
will  leave  to  French  history  to  tell ;  this  is  an  article 
on  the  Dreyfus  case. 

Upon  the  foreign  mind,  accustomed,  if  not  pro- 
fessionally to  weigh  evidence,  at  least  to  procedure 
where  evidence  consists  of  statements  of  fact,  the 
gloom  fell  deeper  and  deeper  hour  by  hour  and  day 
by  day.  We  came  with  curiosity  aflame ;  we  were 
not  merely  to  see  a  great  show,  but  to  solve  a  great 
mystery.  Day  passed  day,  general  came  after  gen- 
eral and  discoursed  for  hours ;  the  mystery  only 
grew  denser.  The  first  witnesses  of  any  moment — 
for  M.  Casimir-Perier  came  to  Rennes  not  to  say 
what  he  knew  of  the  case,  but  to  complain  that 
he,  then  President,  knew  nothing — were  a  proces- 
sion of  French  war  ministers.  Only  two  of  them 
had  anything  to  say,  General  Mercier  and  M.  Cav- 
aignac.  Nothing  could  be  more  utterly  different 
than  the  manner  and  methods  of  the  two ;  yet  both 
created  an  identical  effect — mystification.    M.  Cav- 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  159 

aignac  was  all  open  and  above-board.  He  is  the 
good  boy  of  French  politics — a  toy  Brutus  who  has 
lived  on  his  reputation  for  integrity  ever  since  at 
school  he  refused  to  take  his  prize  from  the  son  of 
the  Emperor  who  imprisoned  his  father.  This  pro- 
fession of  honest  man  leads  to  high  eminence  in 
France — the  more  so  in  that  Cavaignac  has  a  mon- 
opoly of  it.  He  is  the  housemaid  who  sweeps  up 
all  the  scandals  of  France.  When  every  public 
man  but  half  a  dozen  had  dirtied  his  fingers  in 
Panama,  Cavaignac  was  the  man  to  restore  public 
confidence  in  public  honesty.  When  Billot  had  suc- 
ceeded Mercier,  and  the  Dreyfus  case  had  become 
worse  tangled  than  ever,  and  the  General  Staff  and 
the  War  Ofifice  were  suspect,  who  but  Cavaignac 
could  go  to  the  Ministry  of  War  and  vouch  for 
them?  To  the  outsider  he  is  a  tiresome  prig,  with 
his  eternal  protestations  of  Roman  virtue ;  and 
he  looks  it,  with  his  narrow,  stooping  chest,  his 
narrow  pedant's  head,  his  little  moustache,  and  the 
close-cropped,  smug  side-whiskers  on  his  cheek 
bones.  But  to  France  it  is  an  obvious  godsend  to 
have  one  public  man  who  can  be  relied  upon  to  tell 
the  truth.  Cavaignac  duly  went  to  the  Ministry 
of  War  and  announced  that  Dreyfus  was  guilty. 
Cavaignac  said  so ;  France  was  reassured  at  once. 
Presently  Cavaignac  got  up  in  the  Chamber  and 
read  a  letter  from  one  foreign  military  attache  to 
another,  proving  that  Dreyfus  was  a  traitor.  France 
had  it  posted  up  on  the  walls  of  every  commune 
in  the  country.     And  then  one  day  it  was  known 


i6o  THINGS   SEEN 

that  the  letter  was  a  forgery,  and  that  its  author, 
the  chief  stand-by  of  the  General  Staff  in  its  fight 
against  Dreyfus,  was  in  prison  with  his  throat  cut. 
And  the  mystery  was  that  Cavaignac  still  said  Drey- 
fus was  guilty.  The  discovery  of  Henry's  forgery, 
whereof  he  himself  extorted  confession  and  instantly 
acknowledged  it,  was  the  strongest  confirmation  of 
his  famous  integrity.  But  this  time  France  doubted. 
His  heart  remained  unimpeachable — only  what 
about  his  head? 

Now  came  Cavaignac  into  court  at  Rennes  to  set 
all  doubt  to  rest.  He  stood  up  before  the  council  of 
war,  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  harangued  it  as 
if  it  had  been  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  Frankly 
and  clearly  he  told  them  everything  he  knew — and 
it  proved  that  he  knew  nothing.  Not  one  single 
revelation  to  satisfy  the  world  of  Dreyfus's  guilt — 
only  an  argument  such  as  any  man  who  knew  a 
little  of  the  French  army  could  have  made  quite 
as  well !  It  was  a  good  argument,  clear,  cogent, 
everything  except  convincing;  and  to  the  impartial 
mind  it  disposed  for  ever  of  the  superstition  that  a 
man  cannot  honestly  believe  Dreyfus  guilty.  Cav- 
aignac proved  that  Dreyfus  was  in  an  exceptionally 
good  position  to  know  all  the  secrets  detailed  in 
the  intercepted  letter  which  forms  the  basis  of  the 
charge.  Very  few  officers  in  the  French  army  are 
able  to  betray  the  information  that  was  betrayed; 
none  was  more  able  than  Dreyfus.  To  be  evidence 
to  hang  a  man  and  worse,  this  demonstration,  to 
Anglo-Saxon  ideas,  should  have  gone  further  and 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  l6l 

shown  that  none  other  was  able  to  betray  these  se- 
crets at  all.  It  establishes  Cavaignac's  good  faith, 
and  makes  it  easy  to  believe  in  other  men's :  it 
explains  maybe  why  Dreyfus  was  accused  and  con- 
demned. But  it  does  not  clear  the  mists  from 
the  most  extraordinary  affair  that  ever  perplexed  the 
world. 

Mercier's  evidence  explained  nothing;  but  Mer- 
cier's  personality  suggested  whole  volumes.  He 
said  no  more  than  Cavaignac,  and  said  it  a  great 
deal  less  clearly;  but  the  very  obscurity  hinted  at 
possibilities  immeasurable.  It  was  characteristic  of 
the  man  that  his  deposition  dealt  largely  with  the 
cryptic  methods  of  the  bureau  of  espionage,  and  it 
was  itself  so  cryptic  that  we  knew  no  more  of  them 
after  he  had  discoursed  for  an  hour  than  when  he 
began.  Mercier's  personality  strikes  the  note  of  the 
whole  case.  Looking  at  his  back  as  he  gave  evi- 
dence—tall, straight,  and  slim — you  would  have 
called  him  soldierly  and  suspected  him  stupid.  But 
his  face  and  head  are  a  nightmare  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. On  his  face  the  brownish  skin  hangs  loosely. 
There  is  neither  depth  of  cranium  nor  height  of 
forehead  to  hold  a  brain  in.  The  eyes  are  slits  with 
heavy  curtains  of  lids,  and  bags  beneath  them  that 
turn  the  drooping  cheeks  into  caverns.  A  little 
moustache  and  beard  frame  thin  lips  that  might  be 
evil,  sensual,  humorous,  but  could  never  be  human. 
If  you  look  at  his  head,  you  call  him  a  vulture ;  at 
his  face,  you  call  him  a  mummy.  He  speaks  in 
a  slow,  passionless  monotone ;  his  gestures  seem 


l62  THINGS   SEEN 

calculated  to  follow  his  words,  instead  of  proceed' 
ing,  as  a  Frenchman  should,  along  with  them,  on 
the  same  impulse.  When  he  stood  up  side  by  side 
with  Casimir-Perier,  he  persisted  in  his  assertions 
with  the  dogged  mumble  of  a  schoolboy  detected  in 
a  lie.  When  he  sat  and  strove  to  wind  the  toils 
of  treason  round  the  prisoner,  he  seemed  as  un- 
moved by  hate  as  by  pity ;  he  accused  him  dully, 
as  if  repeating  a  lesson.  Cold,  deliberate,  tortuous, 
thorough,  yet  ineffective;  verbose,  but  not  candid; 
bravely  barking  with  native  stupidity ;  conscien- 
tiously  believing  himself  to  be  doing  God's  work; 
untouched  by  hate  or  love,  anger  or  fear  or  hope, 
for  others  or  for  himself — General  Mercier  was  the 
very  type  and  mirror  of  a  Jesuit  grand  inquisitor. 

Mercier  was  the  spirit  of  darkness  ;  but  there  was 
also  a  spirit  of  light.  Nearest  to  the  audience  of  the 
four  robed  figures  on  the  counsel's  bench  was  a 
young  man  of  great  stature  and  size.  As  he  sat 
loosely  on  his  chair,  hitched  his  gown  up  on  to  his 
shoulders,  leaned  forward  to  listen  or  heaved  him- 
self back  to  loll,  every  motion  had  a  vast  sweep, 
embodied  easy  power.  When  he  stood,  he  was  a 
clear  head  above  most  Frenchmen  in  court.  His 
keen  eye  looked  out  from  under  bushy  brows  as  a 
gun  looks  out  of  its  port.  A  light-brown  beard, 
neither  very  trim  nor  shapeless,  and  light-brown 
hair  just  beginning  to  nod  over  his  brow,  tempered 
brute  strength  with  a  look  of  bluff  kindUness.  If 
Mercier  was  an  inquisitor,  this  sunny-faced  giant 
was  a  viking.    It  was  Labori,  the  great  cross-ex- 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  163 

aminer.  Since  he  defended  Zola  he  has  given  him- 
self heart  and  soul  to  the  cause  of  Dreyfus.  Per- 
haps his  skill  in  eliciting  reluctant  truths  was  piqued 
at  the  persistence  of  a  mystery  unfathomed ;  cer- 
tainly his  fighting  spirit  was  roused  by  contumely 
to  resolute  hostility.  When  first  he  rose  to  cross- 
examine,  his  voice  was  agreeable,  yet  seemed  too 
soft  and  liquid  for  the  man.  But  the  moment  he 
approached  a  point,  a  distinction,  an  admission,  it 
hardened  and  rang  like  steel.  In  anger  you  knew 
he  could  roar  out  of  that  great  chest  like  a  bull.  If 
any  champion  could  plunge  into  the  black  shades, 
choke  lies  and  errors  and  ignorance,  and  pluck  out 
the  truth,  it  was  surely  Labori. 

Therefore,  this  being  the  most  tangled  riddle  of 
the  century,  a  French  journalist  galloped  into  court 
at  half-past  six  on  the  third  morning  w'ith  the 
screech,  "Labori  is  shot!"  And  Labori  was  lying 
on  the  canal  bank  with  his  head  in  his  wife's  lap 
and  a  bullet  in  his  back.  He  had  been  shot  from 
behind ;  letters,  including  a  threatening  missive 
received  the  day  before,  had  been  taken  from  his 
pocket ;  it  was  said  that  a  man  had  tried  to  wrest 
from  him  the  portfolio  that  held  his  notes  for  the 
imminent  cross-examination  of  Mercier.  Certain  it 
was  that  the  assailant  got  away  and  remained  un- 
caught  for  days ;  which,  as  he  must  want  food  and 
the  whole  countryside  knew  of  him,  spelt  sympathy 
and  friends.  Plot  or  no  plot,  Rennes  went  mad. 
Jews  wept.  Newspaper-sellers  volleyed  "Long  live 
the  army !"  or  "Down  with  the  tonsure !"  and  hun- 


164  THINGS    SEEN 

dreds  came  out  into  the  street  to  watch  them  do  it. 
At  every  street  corner  somebody  was  calling  some- 
body on  the  other  side  an  assassin.  When  we  re- 
turned from  court  that  morning,  Jewish  ladies  were 
waiting  at  the  doors  of  the  hotel  to  make  sure  that 
no  one  had  assassinated  their  husbands.  They  told 
each  other  with  shaking  lips  that  the  lower  quarters, 
inflamed  by  cider  far  weaker  than  St.  Louis  beer, 
were  contemplating  a  massacre  of  Jews.  They  re- 
membered, and  went  pale,  that  it  was  less  than  a 
week  to  the  St.  Bartholomew.  An  eminent  novelist 
went  up  to  an  eminent  anti-Semite  and  remarked, 
"Assassin !  Your  face  displeases  me.  Assassin !  I 
give  you  five  minutes  to  leave  this  hotel.  Assassin !" 
The  anti-Semite,  who  happens  to  be  a  Jew,  went  to 
the  prefect  and  asked  for  protection. 

"Perfectly,"  replied  the  high-minded  ofificial,  "it 
is  my  duty  to  protect  every  law-abiding  citizen,  irre- 
spective of  party,  race,  sex,  or  creed.  I  shall  do  my 
duty."  The  anti-Semite  Jew  breathed  more  easily. 
"But,"  added  M.  le  Prefect,  "it  would  be  wrong 
to  disguise  from  you  that  my  authority  stops  at 
the  door  of  your  hotel.  By  the  way,"  he  went  on 
pleasantly,  "when  do  you  count  to  leave  Rennes?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Well,  then,  let  me  advise  you,  as  a  man  of  well- 
known  law-abiding  tendencies,  and  considering  the 
emotion  aroused  by  the  odious  attempted  assassina- 
tion of  this  morning,  to — to — advance  the  time  of 
your  departure  by  a  day."  And  he  did.  The  nov- 
elist, a  much  bigger  man,  accompanied  him  to  the 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  165 

door,  shouting  "Assassin!"  and  Rennes  saw  that 
defender  of  the  honour  of  the  army  no  more. 

The  only  Frenchman  who  remained  indubitably 
sane  was  Labor!  himself.  But  bravely  as  he  bore  it, 
the  loss  of  the  five  hours  he  had  promised  himself 
with  General  Alercier,  and  of  the  distinction  he  had 
hoped  to  win  in  the  greatest  case  of  the  century, 
must  have  been  a  bitter  disappointment.  And  to  the 
seeker  after  truth  the  loss  was  almost  as  irreparable. 
Without  Labori  the  case  was  dull,  and  grew  daily 
duller.  The  day  of  the  shooting  brought  a  pro- 
cession of  generals — ruddy,  tubby  generals  of  comic 
opera ;  clean-limbed,  elastic-bodied,  clear-eyed  gen- 
erals of  the  manoeuvre  field ;  bald,  white-headed 
generals  like  elders  in  somebody  else's  crimson 
trousers;  Jesuitical  generals,  winding  coil  on  coil 
of  cold  insinuation  around  the  pale,  silent  prisoner. 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  and  Dreyfus  was  help- 
less and  the  accusers  uncontradicted.  It  was  not 
evidence,  it  was  not  first-hand,  it  was  not  new.  But 
the  judges,  with  this  perpetual  stream  of  accusation 
washing  over  them,  for  the  most  part  from  their 
own  superior  officers,  must  needs  be  carried  away 
by  it  in  the  end.  They  were  plainly  earnest,  con- 
scientious, impartial ;  took  notes,  asked  questions, 
listened  with  fixity ;  were  worthy  of  the  momentous 
part  fate  had  assigned  to  them  in  their  country's 
history.  But  from  day  to  day  accusation  and  innu- 
endo trickled  over,  and  Dreyfus's  face  went  whiter 
and  whiter  and  his  chances  blacker  and  blacker. 

To    the    unprejudiced    truth-seeker    these    days 


l66  THINGS   SEEN 

brought  a  feeling  of  absolute,  dazed  bewilderment. 
The  hope  of  certainty  receded  further  and  further 
into  the  shades ;  and  with  the  absence  of  any  pal- 
pable facts,  the  sense  of  mystery  grew  till  it  became 
an  oppression.  There  must  surely  be  something 
behind  all  this.  Here  was  the  great  case  which  for 
five  years  had  convulsed  France  and  perplexed  the 
world.  In  its  ultimate  effects  it  will  probably  alter 
the  face  of  Europe.  Some  have  called  it  the  be- 
ginning of  the  end  of  civilisation.  And  then  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  at  all  behind  it.  Everybody 
had  promised  the  whole  truth  for  this  final  clearing 
of  the  matter,  and  yet  nothing  came.  Nothing 
known — and  still  it  was  impossible  to  believe  that 
there  was  nothing  to  know.  Everything  seemed 
possible ;  every  wild  hypothesis  progressed,  in  turn, 
from  possibility  to  probability.  One  hour  there  had 
been  a  great  plot  and  a  ring  of  traitors  in  the  army. 
Dreyfus  was  in  it,  and  had  been  sacrificed  to  save 
the  others.  The  next,  ambitious  Dreyfus  had  really, 
as  he  was  said  to  have  acknowledged,  given  up 
trumpery  documents  in  the  hope,  Jew-like,  of  mak- 
ing a  personal  success  by  bringing  to  the  Intelli- 
gence Department  some  great  secret  of  Germany. 
Presently  Esterhazy  was  telling  the  truth :  he  had 
written  the  letter  to  Schwartzkoppen  which  never 
went,  so  as  to  implicate  Dreyfus,  innocent  or  guilty. 
Anon  Dreyfus  had  been  shunned  and  tabooed  by 
his  brother  officers,  and  had  rushed  to  his  revenge 
in  treason. 

Hour  by  hour,  accusation  on  accusation,  Dreyfus 


THE   DREYFUS    CASE  167 

whiter  and  whiter,  his  chances  blacker  and  blacker ! 
And  then  one  morning,  when  the  mihtary  clericalists 
seemed  to  have  their  hands  on  the  prize,  came  a  man 
who  restored  the  balance  of  the  fight.  Colonel 
Picqnart  slouched  into  court  in  a  shocking  bad 
morning  coat  and  ill-fitting  trousers,  lifted  his  hand 
to  the  Christ  and  swore  to  tell  the  truth,  sat  down 
in  the  witnesses'  chair,  got  up,  and  sat  down  more 
comfortably,  settled  his  shoulders  to  the  back  of  it, 
crossed  his  legs,  poured  himself  a  glass  of  water, 
took  hold  of  the  table  before  him  with  both  hands, 
and  began. 

Until  he  ran  his  head  upon  the  Dreyfus  case, 
three  years  ago,  Picquart  was  almost  the  most 
promising  soldier  in  France.  Like  most  of  France's 
best  men,  he  is  an  Alsatian.  He  had  been  fighting 
in  Algeria  and  Tongking,  and  had  spent  most  of  the 
rest  of  his  service  on  the  General  Stafif.  On  these 
two  roads  to  distinction  he  had  gone  so  far  that  he 
was  major  at  thirty-two  and  lieutenant-colonel  at 
forty.  He  speaks  and  writes  English,  German, 
Russian,  Spanish,  and  Italian, — an  accomplishment 
almost  unearthly  in  a  Frenchman.  He  enjoyed  the 
highest  esteem  of  his  chiefs.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  French  army  to  which  he  could  not  legitimately 
aspire,  till  he  ruined  himself  by  taking  up  the  cause 
of  Dreyfus,  He  has  spent  ten  out  of  the  last  thir- 
teen months  in  a  secret  prison.  His  enemies  have 
never  suggested  that  he  had  any  other  motive  than 
a  predilection  for  justice  and  truth. 

He  sat  down  deliberately  as  one  v;Iio  means  to 


l68  THINGS    SEEN 

Stay,  and  began.  From  the  first  word  his  voice  was 
audible  to  everybody  in  court.  His  cahn,  reason- 
able-looking face  was  not  stirred  by  any  kind  of 
emotion.  He  articulated  with  clearness,  spoke  with 
emphasis,  with  pauses  for  his  audience  to  digest 
him,  with  pauses  to  prepare  them  for  an  important 
point,  with  utter  lucidity  and  fastidious  exactness 
of  phrase.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  been  a 
professor  at  the  French  West  Point.  Frankly,  he 
was  there  to  tell  them  what  they  did  not  know, 
and  he  no  more  expected  it  to  be  questioned  than 
the  schoolmaster  expects  the  child  to  dispute  the 
multiplication  table.  The  judges  hated  it.  Even  if 
he  had  not  gone  against  the  army,  he  was  younger 
than  any  of  them,  yet  senior  in  rank  to  six  out  of 
the  seven.  He  was  a  staff  man,  what  they  call  in 
the  English  army  a  "brass  hat,"  and  therefore  not 
beloved  by  less  lucky  regimental  officers.  You 
could  see  their  hostility :  they  looked  at  each  other 
— looked  away — leaned  back — yawned.  Picquart 
went  on  in  his  absolutely  clear  voice,  with  his  abso- 
lutely clear  exposition  of  facts.  This  was  not  evi- 
dence either;  it  was  a  speech  for  the  defence  this 
time,  but  a  masterly  one.  It  was  obvious  in  five 
minutes  that  he  knew  the  whole  case  from  A  to  Z. 
He  knew  the  work  of  the  General  Staff  as  he  knew 
the  alphabet.  He  knew  where  every  docurr.ent 
was  kept,  where  everybody  worked,  what  his  work 
was,  what  he  was  in  a  position  to  know  and  what 
he  was  not.  He  saw  the  nature  and  bearing  of 
every  fact  by  the  dry  white  light  of  pm-e  reason. 


THE   DREYFUS   CASE  169 

This  was  a  man  in  some  sort  like  Mercier — a  man 
for  whom  hate  or  love,  anger  or  hope  or  fear,  could 
never  colour  what  seemed  true  and  right — only  this 
was  a  man  with  a  brain.  His  brain  was  like  a 
swift,  well-oiled  machine,  every  wheel  running  easily 
in  its  place,  every  nut  and  bolt  doing  its  due  share 
of  work,  no  less  and  no  more.  The  judges  ceased 
to  look  about,  they  looked  at  Picquart;  in  the  last 
hour  of  the  five  and  a  half  hours'  sitting  they  leaned 
forward  motionless.  In  two  hours  Picquart  had 
swept  away  over  three  days  of  the  other  side,  and 
the  case  was  back  on  the  level  again. 

And  .what  of  Dreyfus  all  this  while?  If  the 
chances  of  the  fight  excite  the  man  who  merely 
wishes  to  know,  what  of  him  to  whom,  little  as  the 
fighters  may  care  about  him,  it  spells  a  new  life  or 
the  old  hell?  To  look  at  Dreyfus  as  he  usually  is, 
you  would  say  he  was  the  only  quite  disinterested 
spectator  in  the  court.  To  hear  him  speak,  as  he 
rarely  does,  you  would  say  he  was  the  only  man  in 
the  case  who  had  the  clear  head  to  appreciate  the 
evidence  at  its  just  value.  Whatever  he  is  or  has 
been,  Dreyfus  is  no  common  man. 

The  first  day,  he  came  into  court  like  a  dead  man 
just  beginning  to  come  to  life.  He  walked  like  an 
automaton.  His  hair  was  grey;  his  face  was  like 
clay ;  his  eyes  were  invisible  behind  his  glasses. 
His  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  withered  and  sapless. 
He  was  a  translation  into  avv-ful  fact  of  the  metaphor 
"living  death."  But  during  his  interrogation  that 
very  day  his  voice  came  back — harsh,  abrupt,  gusty, 


lyo  THINGS   SEEN 

but  sonorous  and  vibrating.  His  denials  followed 
charges  with  the  instant  rebound  of  a  sharp  volley 
at  tennis.  He  was  stiff,  certainly,  and  formal — it 
was  well  said  that  he  looked  more  like  a  German 
officer  than  a  French — and  he  denied  everything 
with  emphasis,  but  without  emotion.  The  French, 
of  course,  found  him  unsympathetic,  and  certainly 
he  looked  stubborn  and  none  too  cordial  or  genial. 
When  we  saw  him  again,  after  four  days'  secret 
session,  he  had  thawed  amazingly;  he  was  almost 
back  to  normal  life.  He  moved  with  signs  of 
elasticity,  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  spoke  promptly, 
in  a  full  voice.  When  it  was  his  cue  to  be  still, 
he  sat  with  his  knees  together  like  an  Egyptian 
statue.  But  when  the  long  series  of  accusations 
came  lapping  over  him,  intangible,  impossible  to 
deny,  much  less  disprove,  with  Labori  gone  and  his 
other  counsel  ponderous,  then  we  saw  Dreyfus 
slowly  freeze  back  to  death  again.  That  head  that 
always  thrusts  itself  into  the  middle  of  every  photo- 
graph and  insists  on  striking  the  note  of  every 
glance  of  the  man — the  deep,  rounded,  close-cropped 
cranium  and  the  harsh,  strong,  hatchet  profile, 
looked  like  a  death's-head.  It  had  a  queer,  archaic, 
oriental  suggestion;  it  might  have  been  a  skull 
from  Chaldcea,  endowed  by  wizardry  with  a  mo- 
ment's life  and  slowly  fading  back  into  grinning 
bones  again.  At  all  times,  indignant  or  patient, 
hopeful  or  stony,  it  is  the  face  of  a  strong  man,  both 
powerful  to  think  and  brave  to  suffer;  but  it  is  a 
face  that  you  can  never  describe.    It  is  sheer  suffer- 


THE   DREYFUS    CASE  171 

ing  as  it  can  hardly  have  ever  been  seen — suffering 
both  objective  and  subjective,  agony  felt  and  agony 
borne.  There  is  only  one  such  face,  because  there 
is  only  one  France,  and  France  has  but  one  Devil's 
Island. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  especially  when  the  trial 
passed  into  a  stratum  of  smaller  witnesses,  who 
made  definite  statements  instead  of  harangues  for 
prosecution  and  defence,  there  gradually  appeared 
a  new  Dreyfus.  He  became  a  man.  When  he 
stood,  he  stood  poker-backed  as  ever ;  but  he  walked 
every  day  into  court  as  if  he  were  going  to  his  office. 
His  voice  was  still  harsh,  but  it  was  measured.  In- 
stead of  protesting,  protesting,  half  like  a  wounded 
beast  and  half  like  a  machine,  he  began  to  argue — 
to  give  reasons  why  he  did  this  or  could  not  have 
done  that.  From  a  man  trying  to  fight  his  way 
back  to  life  he  had  become  a  man  balancing  prob- 
abilities. His  demeanour,  his  voice,  his  thought, 
while  always  dignified,  were  daily  more  even,  bet- 
ter oiled,  so  to  speak ;  more  on  the  level  of  the  rest 
of  us,  who  have  never  died  and  come  to  life  again. 

But  the  real  Dreyfus — the  unique  Dreyfus  of  the 
Devil's  Island — the  petrified  soul  in  the  rigid  body 
— that  is  the  wonderful,  awful  thing  that  none  who 
saw  and  heard  will  ever  forget  and  none  will  ever 
see  and  hear  again.  For  such,  Dreyfus  will  ring 
through  their  heads  till  they  die  in  one  cry.  It  was 
at  the  end  of  the  second  public  audience.  General 
Mercier,  cold,  hard,  passionless,  had  been  accusing 
him  of  treason  for  three  hours — accusing  him  as 


172  THINGS    SEEN 

though  the  accused  were  either  not  there  or,  seeing 
he  was  there,  were  a  clod  of  clay.  At  length  he 
turned,  and  looked  Dreyfus  in  the  face.  He  said  in 
that  measured,  pitiless  monotone,  "If — I — had — the 
— least — doubt — that  — Dreyfus — was — guilty — I — 
should — be — the — first — to — say"  (oh,  why  in 
mercy  could  he  not  hurry  and  get  it  done?)  "I — was 

— honestly — mistaken " 

Ah !  A  yell  that  seemed  to  rip  the  sleepy  hall  in 
twain !  Dreyfus  was  up,  eyes  blazing,  head  thrust 
fiercely  forward,  fist  flung  out.  "You  should  say 
that,"  were  the  words;  but  they  tore  out  so 
furiously  that  they  were  less  like  words  than  an 
inarticulate  scream  of  supreme  agony.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  stood  thus,  eyes  and  head  and  fist,  with 
the  officer's  pitying  hand  on  his  arm.  It  was  a  tiger 
checked  in  his  spring — only  a  human  tiger,  which 
is  as  capable  of  rage  and  so  much  more  capable  of 
sufifering.  And  the  tone !  It  is  useless  to  wrestle 
with  description :  it  was  the  whole  story  of  the  man 
of  the  Devil's  Island.  Everybody  in  the  hall  sat 
stupid  and  confounded,  as  though  a  bolt  had  fallen 
from  heaven.  Everybody  felt  shy  and  ashamed  in 
presence  of  something  so  incomparably  more  in- 
tense than  they  had  ever  known.  It  was  rage,  and 
it  was  hope — just  a  tiny  dash  of  hope  to  embitter 
the  flavour  of  utter  despair.  It  was  passion  that  a 
man  v/ho  always  lived  among  men  could  never  feel, 
and  that  passion  was  trying  to  burst  out  all  in  a 
phrase  and  did  not  know  the  way.  The  torment  of 
a  dead  soul,  knowing  itself  dead,  in  one  anguished 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  173 

Strain  to  break  through  into  life  again — all  that  was 
in  four  words  of  Dreyfus.  It  told  his  wdiole  history  : 
there  is  no  other  man  on  earth  that  could  have 
uttered  it. 

II. 

THE    EFFECT    ON     FRANCE.^ 

Out-of-doors,  under  the  baking  sun  of  August,  lie 
the  somnolent  streets  of  Rennes.  The  tall  yellow- 
plastered  houses,  all  with  their  yellow-painted  blinds 
hermetically  shut,  are  faultlessly  clean.  You  could 
eat  off  the  square  cobbles  of  the  streets.  But  Rennes 
is  clean  because  it  is  asleep,  and  never  wakes  enough 
to  smirch  itself  with  the  avocations  of  modern  life. 
You  look  down  the  long  vista  of  a  speckless  street, 
and  it  is  empty.  Perhaps  one,  two,  at  most  half-a- 
dozen,  heavy-booted  Breton  men  or  women  clack 
over  the  ringing  pavements.  The  bile-green  river 
through  the  town  might  be  Lethe.  The  shops  doze ; 
the  market  square  snores :  you  wonder  how  the 
place  exists. 

The  mind  could  imagine  no  completer  contrast. 
Within,  the  court  is  all  passion ;  without,  the  town 
is  all  lethargy.  Inside  the  Lycee  is  being  played 
the  last  act  of  the  drama  that  has  convulsed  France 
and  staggered  the  world.  Outside  it,  touching  it, 
France  is  utterly  unaware  of  it. 

Eight  hours  after  the  court  has  adjourned  for  the 
day,  the  good  people  of  Rennes,  appearing  at  their 
doors  in  shirt  sleeves,  can  with  difficulty  be  per- 
^  Harper's  Magazine,   October   1899. 


174  THINGS   SEEN 

suaded  that  the  report  of  the  sitting  is  already 
in  the  evening  paper.  At  length  persuaded,  they 
deliberate  thoroughly  over  ways  and  means  before 
they  decide  to  buy.  At  last  decided,  they  read  with 
effort,  wonder  who  are  Mercier  and  Picquart  that 
they  talk  so  much  about,  and  come  to  no  con- 
clusion. 

On  the  walls  moulder  posters — appeals  to  friends 
of  liberty,  to  law-abiding  Catholics,  to  haters  of 
Jews;  but  Rennes  passes  them  without  Hfting  the 
eyes.  Meetings  are  held  to  denounce  Gallififet,  to 
denounce  the  army,  to  denounce  the  Church,  the 
Jews — anything ;  a  score  of  young  hooligans  smoke 
dirty  tobacco,  yell  when  it  seems  expected  of  them, 
go  out  and  do  nothing.  The  more  electric  Dreyfus, 
the  less  conductive  is  Rennes.  The  most  explosive 
trial  of  the  century  is  packed  in  impenetrable  sand- 
bags of  apathy.  All  of  which  things,  you  would 
naturally  suppose,  make  a  parable.  It  is  of  a  piece 
with  the  irony  of  the  whole  affair  that  the  return  of 
Dreyfus  to  France,  which  ought  to  have  been  a 
match  to  set  faction  detonating,  seemed  instead  the 
signal  for  a  sudden,  immense,  and  mostly  holy  calm. 

It  is  easy  to  draw  inferences  from  that.  It  goes 
to  show  that  the  whole  affair,  the  whole  importance 
and  notoriety  of  Dreyfus,  was  accidental  and 
artificial.  As  soon  as  he  left  the  Devil's  Island 
he  almost  ceased  to  agitate  France.  Indeed,  when, 
in  1895,  M.  Dupuy  and  General  Mercier  took  the 
trouble  to  pass  a  special  law  to  relegate  Dreyfus 
to  the  Devil's  Island,  they  did  the  worst  day's  work 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  175 

of  their  lives.  Had  he  been  sent  in  the  natural 
course  to  New  Caledonia,  it  is  possible  that  he 
might  be  there  still,  forgotten.  "Possible,"  I  say, 
because  he  is  a  Jew,  and  Jews  do  not  readily  forget 
or  cast  off  their  own  people ;  had  he  been  a  Gentile, 
he  had  almost  certainly  been  forgotten  in  New 
Caledonia.  But  the  chance  of  combining  ferocity 
with  theatrical  display  was  too  much  for  a  French 
ministry. 

The  public  degradation  of  Dreyfus,  with  its 
blended  accompanirnents  of  imposing  ceremonial 
and  heartrending  torture,  was,  after  all,  not  too 
severe  for  the  crime  of  which  all  Frenchmen  then 
honestly  believed  him  guilty.  But  the  added 
cruelty  of  making  a  special  law  for  him,  sending 
him  to  a  special  place  of  banishment,  tormenting 
him  with  every  special  penalty  or  deprivation  that 
could  make  life  a  hell — that  recoiled  on  its  authors. 
The  stage-management  was  too  good,  the  situation 
was  too  dramatic,  to  be  forgotten.  Dreyfus  on  his 
own  island — the  very  name  of  the  Devil's  Island 
was  a  melodarma  in  itself — sitting  in  the  sun  within 
his  palisade,  in  irons,  asking  his  guards  for  news, 
and  met  always  with  dead  silence,  informed — as  we 
now  know — that  his  wife  had  borne  a  child  two 
years  after  he  last  saw  her ;  who  could  ever  get  the 
picture  of  such  a  purgatory  out  of  his  head?  Under 
the  last  blow  a  Frenchman  would  have  killed  him- 
self ;  but  the  Alsatian  Jew  was  made  of  stififer  fibre. 
He  lived  on,  and  his  countrymen,  with  the  spec- 
tacle of  that  awful  agony  ever  before  their  eyes,  first 


176  THINGS   SEEN 

exulted,  then  came  to  doubt,  insisted,  disputed,  re- 
viled, lied,  forged,  fought,  forgot  friendship,  kin- 
ship, party,  religion,  country — everything  except 
the  silent  man  in  irons  under  the  sun  of  the  Devil's 
Island. 

But  when  he  was  brought  back — when  he  was 
once  ^ore  Alfred  Dreyfus,  Captain  of  artillery,  in 
the  cell  of  the  military  prison  at  Rennes,  charged 
with  having  communicated  to  a  foreign  power 
documents  concerning  the  national  defence,  tried 
on  that  charge  before  a  court-martial  of  his  peers — 
then  France  was  no  longer  haunted  by  him.  The 
avenging  ghost  was  laid.  Calm  overspread  the 
land.  Many  men  had  openly  declared  that  Dreyfus 
ran  an  excellent  chance  of  being  shot  between  his 
point  of  debarkation  and  the  prison  of  Rennes ;  he 
was  not  even  hissed.  There  has  not  been  a  single 
demonstration  outside  his  prison  worthy  of  ten 
lines  in  a  newspaper.  And — lest  you  should  put 
down  that  fact  to  the  congenital  torpor  of  Rennes — 
in  the  excitable  south,  in  the  great  militar}^  centres, 
in  the  manufacturing  centres,  in  volcanic  Paris 
itself,  Dreyfus  has  not  been  the  occasion  of  a  single 
disturbance  of  any  significance  since  he  was  landed 
in  France. 

Language  remains  violent  enough  and  vile 
enough,  it  is  true :  such  a  furious  habit  of  black- 
guarding opponents  as  has  grown  up  with  the 
Dreyfus  case  in  France  could  hardly  be  stilled  in  a 
day.  But  everybody  has  felt  more  at  ease.  The 
poHticians  and  journalists  have  enjoyed  the  affair, 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  177 

no  doubt,  but  even  in  Paris  man  cannot  live  on  re- 
nown alone.  From  them,  and  still  more  from  the 
half-indifferent,  wholly  perplexed  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple, went  up  a  great  "Ouf !"  of  relief.  Now  at  last, 
said  they,  we  shall  have  the  truth,  we  shall  have 
finality  in  this  wretched  affair;  thereafter  we  shall 
have  peace. 

It  might  re-enforce  that  hope  to  consider  how 
wholly  irrelevant  to  all  great  material  issues  the 
Dreyfus  case  has  been.  At  the  first  glance  it  seems 
that  France  has  chosen  to  lose  her  head  over  a 
matter  which  she  might  just  as  well  have  let  alone, 
which  is  over  now,  and  has  left  her  where  she  was 
before.  Whether  Dreyfus  or  Esterhazy  betrayed 
documents,  or  both,  or  neither,  it  is  certain  that 
no  other  French  oiTficer  will  be  tempted  to  do  the 
same  for  years  enough  to  come.  Even  if  wrong 
has  been  done — if  the  innocent  has  been  punished 
and  the  guilty  has  gone  free,  after  all,  it  is  only 
one  man.  And  it  is  expedient  that  one  man  should 
suffer  for  the  whole  people. 

So  argued,  and  would  argue  again,  more  than 
half  of  France.  And  just  because  they  argue  thus, 
they  are  utterly  and  fatally  wrong.  It  may  be  ex- 
pedient to  sacrifice  one  man  for  a  country — when 
the  detection  of  sacrifice  and  of  expediency  is  left  to 
others.  But  when  the  country  argues  thus  itself, 
when  it  sacrifices  the  innocent  one  with  its  eyes 
open,  then  the  sacrifice  is  not  expedient,  but  ruin- 
ous.    It  is  this  truth  that  Colonel  Picquart  saw  and 


I/S  THINGS    SEEN 

proclaimed  three  years  ago.  When  Dreyfus  was 
first  condemned  it  is  probable  that  everybody  con- 
cerned— even  Colonel  du  Paty  de  Clam,  who 
examined  him,  and  General  Mercier,  who  procured 
his  conviction  by  communicating  to  his  judges 
secret  documents  behind  his  back' — honestly  be- 
lieved him  guilty.  But  in  1896  Picquart  found  rea- 
son to  think  that  the  treachery  for  which  he  was 
condemned  had  been  committed  by  Esterhazy. 

On  this  he  wrote  as  follows  to  General  Gonse : 
"The  moment  is  at  hand  when  those  who  are  con- 
vinced that  a  mistake  has  been  made  with  regard 
to  them  will  make  a  desperate  effort  to  have  it 
rectified.  ...  I  think  I  have  taken  all  the  steps 
necessary  for  the  initiative  to  come  from  ourselves. 
If  we  lose  too  much  time  the  initiative  will  be  taken 
by  outsiders,  and  that,  apart  from  higher  considera- 
tions, will  put  us  in  an  odious  light.  ...  It  will 
be  a  troublesome  crisis,  useless,  and  one  which 
we  can  avoid  by  doing  justice  in  time."  Up  to  that 
moment  one  man  had  suffered  for  the  people,  they 
not  knowing  it,  and  it  was  not  altogether  expedient. 
But  from  the  moment  the  people  knew  and  still  let 
him  suffer — from  that  moment  began  the  convul- 
sion, the  dissensions,  the  moral  putrefaction,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  discovered  distempers  of  France. 

It  was  known  in  widening  circles,  first  to  a  few 
soldiers,  then  to  journalists  and  politicians,  then  to 
everybody  who  cared  to  be  convinced,  then — after 
the  detection  of  Henry's  forgeries — to  everybody 
with  ears  to  hear,  that  Dreyfus,  if  not  innocent,  had 


THE    DREYFUS   CASE  179 

not  yet  been  proved  guilty.  In  the  face  of  that 
knowledge  France  still  howled,  "Let  him  suffer!" 
It  is — to  Anglo-Saxon  eyes,  at  least — at  once  the 
grimmest  and  grotesquest  spectacle  in  history — a 
whole  nation,  knowing  that  justice  has  not  been 
done,  keenly  excited  about  the  question,  and  yet  not 
caring  a  sou  whether  justice  is  done  or  not.  What 
matter,  cried  France,  whether  he  is  justly  con- 
demned or  not?  Shoot  him  rather  than  discredit 
the  army.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  judgment  of 
the  Court  of  Cassation  was  received  with  disap- 
pointment, not  to  say  fury,  by  the  majority  of  the 
French  people.  And  even  of  the  minority — of  the 
Dreyfusards  who  clamoured  for  revision — who  shall 
say  how  few  cared  for  doing  justice  to  a  man  who 
might  be  innocent,  and  how  many  gave  tongue 
merely  because  they  hated  the  army,  or  the  Roman 
Church,  or  Christianity,  or  France  herself?  All 
but  the  whole  nation — the  nation  which  professes 
itself  the  most  civilised  in  the  world — publicly  pro- 
claimed that  it  cared  nothing  for  the  first  essential 
of  civic  morality.  Partly  the  petulance  of  a  spirited 
child  which  will  not  see  the  patent  truth,  partly  the 
illogical  logic  of  French  intelligence  which  will 
commit  any  insanity  that  is  recommended  in  the 
form  of  a  syllogism,  partly  the  sheer  indifference  of 
a  brute  that  knows  neither  right  nor  wrong. 

But  why  try  to  analyse  a  phenomenon  so  despic- 
able? One  thing  is  certain,  common  justice  is  tlie 
first  and  most  indispensable  condition  of    a  free 


l8o  THINGS    SEEN 

country's  existence.  It  is  absurd  to  think  that  any 
cause  which  has  led  to  so  deHberate  a  jettison  of 
justice  from  the  national  cargo  can  be  irrelevant — 
can  be  anything  but  most  portentous  and  most 
disastrous  to  the  nation. 

From  henceforth  every  reflecting  Frenchman 
knows  that  he  may  be  accused  of  any  crime,  con- 
demned on  evidence  he  has  never  heard  of,  ban- 
ished, tormented  in  body  and  mind,  and  that 
hardly  a  soul  among  his  countrymen  will  care 
whether  he  is  getting  justice  or  injustice.  They 
happened  to  take  sides  about  Dreyfus  ;  he  may  have 
no  such  luck.  Dreyfus,  for  the  rights  of  whose 
case  friends  and  foes  cared  nothing,  happened  to  be 
a  convenient  stick  for  anti-Semites  and  anti-mili- 
tarists to  thump  the  other  side  with ;  he  may  not. 
Reasoning  thus,  will  the  reflective  Frenchman  cul- 
tivate independence  of  thought,  civic  courage, 
poHtical  honesty?  Not  he.  He  will  make  it  his 
business  in  life  to  cultivate  a  safe  obscurity,  and 
shout,  if  shout  he  must,  always  with  the  largest 
crowd. 

The  results  of  such  a  lesson  upon  the  public  life  of 
a  nation  are  not  easy  to  detect  at  once  and  in  glar- 
ing cases ;  but  you  may  be  very  sure  they  are  there, 
and  in  the  long-run  they  will  show  themselves. 
The  French  citizen  was  fearful  of  unpopularity  be- 
fore ;  he  will  not  be  bolder  now.  The  punishment 
of  the  eminent  biologist  Grimaux,  who  lost  his  pro- 
fessorship because  he  gave  evidence  for  Zola,  will 
not  be  lost  on  him.     The  timidity  of  a  Casimir- 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  l8l 

Perier,  a  Mercier,  a  Gonse,  a  Delagorgue — of  the 
President  of  the  Repubhc,  the  Minister  of  War,  the 
sub-chief  of  the  General  Staff,  the  judge  who  tried 
Zola — who  all  suspected  the  truth  and  dared  not 
discover  it,  will  be  emulated  by  lesser  men. 
Cowardice  will  become  a  principle  of  public  life. 

In  one  respect  alone  can  France  claim  pity — that 
she  became  bankrupt  in  justice  through  honouring 
too  large  a  draft  of  her  darling  child,  the  army. 
The  army  is  the  adored  of  France.  A  few  of  the 
younger  men,  still  smarting  from  the  petty  brutali- 
ties of  sergeants  who  delight  to  bully  boys  of  a 
better  class  than  their  own,  hate  it  bitterly ;  but  to 
France  as  a  whole  her  army  is  her  dearest  treasure. 
In  a  conscriptive  country  the  sight  of  troops  in  the 
street  is  as  familiar  as  that  of  policemen  on  Broad- 
way. In  Germany  or  Austria  a  regiment  will 
march  past  with  drum  and  colours  and  hardly  a 
head  turns  to  follow  it.  But  in  France  the  passage 
of  the  regiment  empties  every  shop,  and  leaves  the 
whole  street  tingling  with  pride  and  enthusiasm 
and  love.  It  does  not  diminish  this  afifection  that 
the  last  time  the  army  took  the  field  it  was  beaten 
and  crumpled  up,  shot  down  by  battalions,  and  car- 
ried into  captivity  by  brigades.  Quite  the  reverse. 
France  feels  a  sort  of  yearning  to  comfort  her  army 
as  a  mother  might  comfort  an  unsuccessful  son. 
And  the  hope  of  revenge  for  that  humiliation,  in 
which  she  has  lived  for  near  a  generation,  rests  in 
the  army  alone.  The  army^ — as  they  have  said  so 
often — the  army  is  France.     Everybody  has  served 


i82  THINGS    SEEN 

in  it;  everybody  depends  on  it.  The  army  is 
France. 

Only  that  unlucky  gift  of  bad  logic  led  France 
astray  again.  The  army  being  France,  they  argue, 
the  honour  of  the  army  is  the  honour  of  France. 
Thence  they  pushed  on  to  the  facile  fallacy.  The 
honour  of  the  heads  of  the  army  is  the  honour  olf 
the  army,  and  therefore  of  France.  Honour,  in 
that  sense,  apparently  means  reputation  for  honour, 
which  comes,  when  you  work  it  out,  to  the  dictum 
that  an  officer  can  do  no  wrong — or  at  least,  if  he 
does,  nobody  may  say  so. 

The  principle  does  not  apply,  apparently,  to  a 
retired  general,  like  de  Gallilifet.  It  does  not  apply 
to  a  mere  captain,  like  Dreyfus.  It  appears  to  apply 
to  some  lieutenant-colonels,  such  as  Esterhazy,  but 
not  to  others,  such  as  Picquart. 

When  Esterhazy  refused  at  the  Zola  trial  to 
answer  questions  relative  to  his  alleged  connection 
with  the  German  military  attache,  the  judge,  M. 
Delagorgue,  protected  him.  "There  is  something," 
said  he,  "more  important  than  a  court  of  justice — 
the  honour  and  security  of  the  country."  "I 
gather,"  tartly  replied  Zola's  counsel,  "that  the 
honour  of  the  country  allows  an  officer  to  do  such 
things,  but  does  not  allow  them  to  be  spoken  of." 

Precisely.  It  came,  of  course,  in  practice  to  the 
divine  right  of  generals.  If  a  general's  act  was 
questioned,  he  responded  that  the  interests  of  the 
national  defence  demanded  it,  and  said  no  more. 

France  for  the  most  part  was  quite  satisfied.    She 


THE   DREYFUS   CASE  183 

had  invented  a  new  kind  of  government — Caesar- 
ism  without  a  Caesar. 

No  general  was  able  or  resolute  enough  to  im- 
pose his  authority  on  his  fellows.  There  was  not 
even  a  recognised  clique  of  generals.  Any  gen- 
eral would  do.  De  Pellieux  was  neither  Minister 
of  War  nor  Governor  of  Paris ;  yet  it  was  really  he, 
and  not  the  judge  and  jury,  who  tried  and  con- 
demned Zola.  De  la  Roque  was  not  even  on  the 
active  list,  yet  an  open  letter  from  him  to  the  judges 
and  witnesses  at  the  Rennes  court-martial  was 
paraded  in  almost  every  newspaper  in  France  as  if 
it  had  come  down  from  Sinai.  Had  any  Minister 
of  War  desired  to  make  himself  dictator  or  bring  in 
a  Pretender,  such  was  the  all-accepting  meekness  of 
the  country  that  he  could  have  done  it.  None 
dared,  and  none  of  the  Pretenders  thought  the 
sceptre  worth  picking  up  out  of  the  gutter.  The  re- 
sult was  that  nobody  knew  who  was  ruling  France 
at  any  given  moment,  or,  indeed,  knew  anything  at 
all — except  that,  whoever  was  ruling,  it  certainly 
was  not  the  President  nor  the  Ministry  of  the  Re- 
public. Summarily  the  Republic,  during  the  three 
years  of  the  Dreyfus  agitation,  abdicated. 

There  was  nothing  surprising  in  that :  the  corrup- 
tion and  cowardice  of  Ministers,  Senators,  and 
Deputies  had  been  amply  demonstrated  by  the 
scandal  of  Panama.  It  only  finally  shook  what 
was  already  tottering. 

But  the  efifects  of  government  by  generals  were 
new  and   dismal.     It  was  bad   enough   that  thc}^ 


i84  THINGS   SEEN 

should  arrogate  power  to  override  every  authority 
in  the  state ;  yet  to  usurp  is  a  generous  crime,  and 
to  permit  the  usurpation  of  the  army  was  in  France 
a  generous  weakness.  The  dismal  portent  was  the 
utter  incapacity  which  the  generals  displayed.  The 
Dreyfus  case  was  their  own  game,  and  they  had 
all  the  cards ;  but  for  the  life  of  them  they  could 
not  play  a  single  one  correctly.  Wherever  it  was 
possible  to  bungle  or  vacillate,  they  bungled  and 
vacillated. 

They  first  admitted  in  the  press  that  Dreyfus  was 
condemned  on  secret  documents — ^that  is,  illegally — 
and  then  denied  it  in  the  Chamber.  They  first 
contended  that  Dreyfus  wrote  the  incriminating 
bordereau,  because  it  was  like  his  natural  hand- 
writing ;  then  that  he  traced  it,  because  it  was  more 
like  Esterhazy's.  They  tried  to  entrap  Picquart  by 
bogus  cryptograms  that  would  have  been  childish 
in  a  comic  opera.  They  filled  the  air  with  assevera- 
tions of  their  loyalty  to  the  Republic  while  they 
were  openly  violating  its  fundamental  principles. 
They  declared  that  for  the  paramount  honour  of  the 
country  they  would  prefer  a  revolution  to  the 
revision  of  the  Dreyfus  case ;  then,  when  it  came 
to  the  point,  submitted  in  tam.e  silence  to  the  Cour 
de  Cassation  and  General  de  Galliflfet's  orders. 
Worst  of  all  was  their  behaviour,  where  at  least  you 
might  have  expected  dignity  and  spirit,  in  regard  to 
foreign  Powers.  They  withdrew  from  Fashoda 
and  renounced  Egypt  for  ever  rather  than  fight 
Great   Britain,  although    Marchand's    appearance 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  185 

there  was  the  hoped-for  climax  of  the  deHberate 
policy  of  years.  One  day  they  inspired  impertinent 
fables  about  the  Kaiser's  communications  with 
Dreyfus ;  the  next  they  sheepishly  denied  them  on 
the  threats  of  his  ambassador.  The  great  inter- 
national result  of  three  years  of  government  by 
generals  is  that  France  has  virtually  showed  herself 
unfit  for  war  by  sea  or  land — afraid  of  England,  ter- 
rified by  Germany,  the  vassal  of  Russia — all  but  a 
second-rate  Power. 

"What  is  to  become  of  your  army  in  the  day  of 
danger?"  cried  General  de  Pellieux  at  the  trial  of 
Zola.  "What  would  you  have  your  unhappy  sol- 
diers do,  led  under  fire  by  officers  whom  others  have 
striven  to  discredit  in  their  eyes?  .  .  .  It  is  to 
a  mere  butchery  they  are  leading  your  sons."  It 
is — or  would  be,  if  France  Vv'ere  mad  enough  to 
fight.  There  would  be  as  ruinous  a  collapse  as  in 
1870.  Only  that  would  not  be  the  work  of 
"others,"  but  of  the  leaders  of  the  army  itself.  They 
are  indeed  discredited — by  their  own  folly.  Few 
people  yet  believe  in  their  honesty,  and  now  none  in 
their  capacity.  Every  man  in  France  who  knows 
anything  of  the  last  three  years'  history,  in  his  heart 
distrusts  his  beloved  army  utterly.  That  is  the 
sum  of  what  the  generals,  with  everything  in  their 
favour,  have  been  able  to  do  for  France,  for  the 
army,  and  for  themselves. 

The  degradation  of  politics  and  of  the  army  has 
been  equalled  by  that  of  the  press.     France  has 


i86  THINGS   SEEN 

never  had  a  journal — unless  we  except  the  'Temps* 
and  the  present  incarnation  of  the  'Matin' — which 
an  Anglo-Saxon  public  would  call  a  newspaper ;  but 
then  she  does  not  want  one.  She  has  had  journals 
which  supply  what  she  wants — well-considered  and 
elegantly  written  essays  on  the  subjects  of  the  day. 
Such  she  still  finds  in  organs  like  the  'Figaro'  and 
the  'Jo^i^nsl  des  Debats' ;  but  in  the  lower  ranks  of 
the  press  the  fatal  influence  of  the  Dreyfus  case  has 
told  vilely.  American  papers  appear  to  an  English- 
man free-spoken  in  their  attacks  on  opponents ;  but 
the  cheapest  rag  in  New  York  would  blush  for  the 
recklessness,  g-ullibility,  and  foulness  of  the  baser 
French  press.  Restraints  of  good  taste  and  decency 
are  quite  obsolete.  You  call  your  political  op- 
ponent "a  prodigy  of  corruption  both  in  public  and 
in  private  life ;  with  thirty  years  of  lies,  debauchery, 
bribery,  defamation,  and  calumny  behind  him." 
The  Prime  Minister,  if  you  dislike  his  policy,  you 
describe  as  "only  half  cleansed  of  the  murder  of 
Camot,  the  butcher  of  Madagascar,  Hanotaux's 
accomplice  in  the  extermination  of  the  Armenians." 
You  never  speak  of  General  de  GallifTet  by  name, 
but  as  "the  assassin  of  May" ;  they  will  know  whom 
you  mean.  M.  Cavaignac  being  personally  irre- 
proachable, it  is  well  to  hark  back  to  his  ancestors, 
and  call  him  the  heir  of  two  generations  of  mur- 
derers. Never  say  your  opponent  published  his 
opinions ;  say  that  he  vomited  them.  You  can 
hardly  go  wrong  in  describing  anything  you  dislike 
as  ordure.    With  foulness  go  intimidation,  obtuse- 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  187 

ness,  spiritlessness.  During  the  trial  of  Zola  many 
newspapers  headed  their  issues  for  days  with  the 
names  and  addresses  of  the  jurors,  accompanied  by 
suitable  instigations  to  violence.  During  the  sec- 
ond court-martial  on  Dreyfus  an  ingenious  little 
paper  in  Rennes  ran  a  serial,  giving  the  story  of  an 
Alsatian  spy  in  1870  named  Deutschfus,  who  se- 
duced an  honest  girl,  and  then  returning  as  an 
uhlan,  shot  her,  and  kidnapped  her  child.  The 
credulity  of  such  newspapers  equals  their  violence, 
and  they  readily  gulp  down  the  wildest  stories  and 
clumsiest  forgeries.  And  when  an  occasion  comes, 
like  the  Fashoda  crisis,  in  which  a  strong  lead 
might  fitly  have  been  given  to  the  nation,  nothing 
was  forthcoming  except  alternate  bluster  and  pul- 
ing. With  one  breath  they  thundered  out  what 
things  they  would  do  if  they  could;  with  the  next 
they  wailed  for  compassion  because  they  could  not 
do  them.  They  inquired  into  the  possible  cause  of 
the  national  decadence  quite  openly,  and  wound  up 
with  "Poor  France !" 

Poor  France  indeed!  The  government  paraly- 
tic, her  army  cankered,  her  press  putrid — what  re- 
mains to  her?  The  Church?  The  Church  re- 
mains, but  the  influence  of  the  Catholic  leaders 
and  the  Catholic  clergy  in  the  cause  of  anti- 
Semitism  has  discredited  her  among  all  fair-minded 
men.  The  law?  The  law  has  been  broken  and 
mended  to  order  for  the  advantage  or  the  disad- 
vantage of  individuals;  and  while  the  Cour  de 
Cassation  has  done  its  duty  most  honourably  under 


l88  THINGS    SEEN 

difficult  circumstances,  lesser  magistrates  have  been 
found  to  surrender  the  law  to  partisanship  or  to 
fear,  M.  Ouesnay  de  Beaurcpaire  was  one  of  tlie 
highest  judges  in  France,  and  his  silly  spitefulness 
has  made  him  the  unpitied  laughing-stock  of  the 
world. 

Then  what  remains  ?  Why,  Rennes !  The  storm 
of  party  bitterness,  folly,  weakness,  knavery,  has 
swept  over  from  Paris  into  its  own  Lycee ;  yet 
Rennes  basks  unmoved  under  its  sun.  Walk  dow^n 
the  drowsy  streets.  Look  at  the  Breton  people — 
the  shopkeepers,  the  blue  blouses,  the  little  lace  caps 
over  women's  faces  bronzed  with  field-work.  There 
are  yet  people  in  France  who  are  courteous  and 
kindly,  simple  and  frugal  and  brave,  who  earn  their 
living,  and  love  their  kin,  and  do  what  the  priest 
tells  them,  and  are  ready  to  die  for  France.  There 
are  millions  more  of  them  all  over  the  provinces. 
Paris  looks  down  upon  them,  and  the  whole  world 
outside  hardly  knows  of  them ;  but  they  are  the 
real  strength  of  France.  It  is  theirs  to  work  while 
Paris  talks,  to  earn  what  Paris  squanders,  to  heal 
when  Paris  wounds. 

The  Dreyfus  case  is  the  deepest  cut  which  Paris 
has  scored  on  the  nation's  body  since  1870 — per- 
haps since  1789.  But  it  has  not  reached  the  vitals, 
and  the  provinces  may  heal  it  as  they  have  done 
again  and  again  before.  The  recuperative  power 
of  France  has  ever  amazed  the  world,  merely  be- 
cause the  world  has  thought  that  France  spelled 


THE    DREYFUS    CASE  189 

only   Paris.     The   provinces   do   nothing  else  but 
recuperate. 

Only  that  process,  especially  with  a  dwindling 
population,  cannot  go  on  for  ever.  There  will  come 
in  the  end  a  day — and  sooner,  perhaps,  than  we 
think — when  Paris  will  have  sucked  the  nation  dry, 
and  the  provinces  will  have  no  more  to  give. 
France  will  still  be  France,  but  no  longer  a  great 
Power.  And  in  some  w^ays  the  demand  which 
these  three  years  of  factious  frenzy  have  made  on 
France  is  more  exhausting  than  any  of  those  from 
which  she  has  recovered.  In  181 5  and  1871  it  w^as 
comparatively  easy  for  a  united  people  to  revive 
after  foreign  war.  After  the  Revolution,  when  the 
whole  fabric  of  society  was  swept  away,  there  was 
a  great  faith  wherewith  to  build  up  everything 
anew ;  and  after  that  the  miracle  of  Napoleon.  In 
1899,  after  the  Dreyfus  case,  the  great  institutions 
of  France  still  stand ;  but  everybody  knows  them 
rotten.  There  is  no  faith ;  and  because  there  is  no 
faith,  there  will  be  no  miracle. 


THE  JUBILEE.! 
I. 

LONDON'S    NEW    GAME. 

London  is  a  great  big  baby.  Its  mother,  tlie 
Queen,  has  given  it  a  new  toy,  and  Loi|don  has  for- 
gotten everything  else,  and  sat  down  to  play  with  it. 
It  calls  its  new  toy  the  Diamond  Jubilee ;  a  sixtieth 
anniversary  has  nothing  to  do  either  with  a  dia- 
mond wedding  or  a  jubilee,  but  London  will  have  it 
so,  and  children's  whims  must  be  humoured.  We 
are  going  to  play  with  our  toy  in  our  own  way,  and 
make-believe  just  as  much  as  we  like.  Stewart 
tartan  has  nothing  in  particular  to  do  with  her 
gracious  Majesty,  and  red,  white,  and  blue  are  the 
colours  of  either  France  or  Holland.  But  what 
does  that  matter?  If  we  call  them  Jubilee  things, 
they  are  Jubilee  things ;  they  shall  be  Jubilee  things. 
Let  us  play  with  our  Jubilee  in  the  way  we  like. 

So  London — strange  child — has  pulled  out  all  its 
little  wooden  boxes  of  bricks  and  piled  them  up  all 
over  the  fronts  of  its  houses,  and  has  made  little 
bows  and  rosettes  and  streamers  out  of  bits  of  stuff, 
and  picked  up  odds  and  ends  of  wire,  and  bits  of 
glass  bottles,  and  twisted  them  into  stars  and 
crowns  and  V.R.'s.     In  Piccadilly  it  has  tried  its 

*  Daily  Mail,  June  1897. 
190 


THE   JUBILEE  IQI 

little  fingers  at  drawing  roses  and  things  to  put  up 
on  masts,  and  they  have  come  out  very  much  hke 
other  babies'  first  attempts.  In  one  place  it  has 
even  essayed  a  map  of  England:  it  looks  like  a 
badly-battered  coal-scuttle,  and  the  country  next  to 
it  is  spelled  "Holand,"  but  it  is  not  at  all  discredit- 
able for  a  beginning.  It  is  adding  hide-and-seek 
to  the  other  game,  putting  up  little  fences  across 
such  places  as  the  Duke  of  York's  steps,  and  the 
north  side  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  with  little 
doors  to  pop  your  head  out  of  and  say  "Bo !"  Oh, 
yes,  London  is  going  to  have  a  good  romp.  And 
London — good  child — has  invited  all  its  little 
brothers  and  sisters  and  cousins  from  the  provinces 
and  the  colonies  to  come  and  play  with  it  at  its 
party. 

I  suppose  the  Diamond  Jubilee,  like  other  things, 
came  gradually.  I  suppose  observant  people 
noticed  its  coming,  and  marked  how  it  spread  itself 
over  the  town,  and  soaked  into  the  brains  of  the 
people.  But  to  anybody  who  comes  back  to  Lon- 
don and  finds  it  burst  upon  him  suddenly,  it  is  as- 
tounding, stunning,  paralysing.  People  don't 
seem  to  notice  it  or  to  realise  what  it  all  amounts 
to.  I  feel  inclined  to  stop  people  in  the  street — 
people  on  whom  it  has  stolen  gradually — and  ask 
them  if  they  know  what  they  have  been  doing  while 
I  have  been  away.  There  is  a  learned  judge :  does 
he  know  that  he  is  creeping  shyly  into  his  club  up  a 
narrow  deal  staircase  that  I  should  have  sworn  was 
the  gallery  entrance  of  a  penny  show?    Does  that 


192  THINGS    SEEN 

gallant  general  pacing-  stiffly  up  St.  James's  Street 
realise  that  he  is  traversing  a  large  advertisement 
of  Harrod's  Stores  ?  Can  our  City  princes  not  have 
noticed  that  somebody  has  stuck  a  lot  of  carpentry 
on  the  very  pediment  of  the  Royal  Exchange? 
Somebody  else  has  boarded  up  the  Law  Courts, 
and  barristers  and  solicitors  stoop  and  dive  in  as  if 
they  were  going  to  clean  out  their  chicken-houses. 
The  Houses  of  Parliament  are  all  scaffolding,  too, 
and  at  first,  seeing  no  reports  in  the  papers,  I 
thought  they  had  been  abolished  while  I  was  away. 
But  yesterday  the  flag  was  up  again,  which  contra- 
dicted that  theory,  and  left  the  impression  that  all 
the  woodwork  was  put  up  that  honourable  mem- 
bers might  practise  sitting  on  the  fence.  Even  to 
take  a  penny  boat  at  Westminster  you  have  to  go 
under  a  sort  of  triumphal  arch  of  joinery.  I  be- 
lieve somebody  has  even  been  washing  a  house  in 
St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  then  stuck  paper  flowers 
all  over  it.  The  Duke  of  Devonshire,  you  would 
have  said,  was  a  solid,  level-headed  man  enough, 
but  he  has  let  some  imbecile  adorn  his  house  with  a 
childish  subtraction  sum — 1837-1897:  seven  from 
seven  is  nought,  three  from  nine  leaves  six ;  answer, 
sixty ;  sixty  years'  reign  ;  fancy !  They  are  actually 
changing  all  London  from  building  into  furniture. 
One  house  in  Piccadilly  is  being  covered  all  over, 
first  with  woodwork,  and  then  with  chintz,  like  a 
new  sofa.  And  in  a  few  days,  if  it  goes  on  as  it  has 
begun,  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  itself  will  be  turned  into 
a  comfortable  red-baize  ottoman. 


THE   JUBILEE  193 

And  the  shops !  They  are  all  playing  at  Jubilee 
their  very  hardest.  Jubilee  favours,  Jubilee  ties, 
Jubilee  medals,  Jubilee  flasks.  The  tailors  have  put 
bunches  of  Jubilee  ribbons  on  top  of  their  summer 
trouserings,  though  I,  for  one,  shall  refuse,  abso- 
lutely, to  have  my  next  pair  trimmed  with  red, 
white,  and  blue.  I  have  observed  a  gallant  boot- 
maker, who  could  hardly  produce  a  tricolour  shoe, 
or  pretend  that  his  guinea  boots  would  be  desirable 
in  after-years  as  a  memento.  So  he  has  written  up, 
"A  large  stock  of  boots  for  immediate  wear."  "Im- 
mediate wear;"  note  the  suggestion:  buy  quickly, 
lest  the  Jubilee  be  upon  you,  and  you  fiind  you  liave 
no  boots  fit  to  do  it  justice.  Only  two  tradesmen 
have  I  seen  who  kept  their  heads,  and  their  self- 
respect,  through  the  crisis.  Both  carry  on  busi- 
ness in  the  Borough  Road.  One  was  concealed 
behind  a  forest  of  gold  and  scarlet  flags  and  a 
cataract  of  crimson  drapery — concealed,  but  not  ob- 
scured, for  he  had  labelled  the  gorgeous  mass  with 
the  legend,  "Back  door  to  barber's  shop."  The 
other  had  written  up,  "Business  as  usual,"  and  in 
the  gloom  behind  the  hoarding  I  saw  the  collarless 
merchant  leaning  against  his  doorstep  smoking  his 
clay — carrying  on  business  as  usual.  But  nearly 
all  the  other  shops  have  quite  forgotten  them- 
selves. They  have  entirely  forgotten  what  they  are 
there  to  sell,  and  have  taken  to  selling  themselves. 
They  have  made  plans  of  themselves,  and  price- 
lists,  forgetting  in  their  confusion  that  it  is  quite  as 
easy  to  look  at  a  shop  as  to  look  at  a  plan.     And 


194  THINGS   SEEN 

there  they  stand,  some  decently  covered  with  red, 
but  most  naked  and  unashamed,  and  offer  them- 
selves for  sale  in  the  public  street !  And  one  of 
them,  in  Fleet  Street,  has  gone  further  still.  "Dia- 
mond Jubilee  to  let,"  it  audaciously  proclaims.  It 
sounds  like  an  exaggeration;  London  has  hardly 
got  so  far  as  that  yet.  Yet  v^ho  knows  ?  Nothing 
would  surprise  me  less  than  to  hear  that  a  syndi- 
cate had  bought  up  the  Diamond  Jubilee,  and  was 
letting  it  out  for  garden-parties. 

I  walked  down  Cheapside  yesterday,  and  I  give 
my  solemn  w^ord  that  everybody  there  was  talking 
Jubilee.  I  caught  no  other  sound.  Jubilee,  Jubi- 
lee, Jubilee,  they  intoned,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of  re- 
ligious litany.  I  said  I  walked,  but  it  would  be 
more  correct  to  say  I  ricochetted  down  Cheapside. 
Rebounding  from  one  solid  body  to  another,  I  was 
propelled  down  Cheapside.  For  London's  cousins 
from  the  country  have  arrived  at  the  party  very 
early,  and  they  do  not  altogether  know  the  ways  of 
the  house.  Great  bunches  of  them  in  frock-coats 
and  bowlers,  and  stiff  silk  gowns,  insisted  on  stand- 
ing still  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  pavement  in 
front  of  the  Mansion  House.  Dear  people,  they 
didn't  know  how  naughty  it  is  to  stop  dead  in  front 
of  the  Mansion  House,  and  there  ought  to  have 
been  somebody  there  to  tell  them  not  to  do  it. 
They  go  stumping  all  up  and  down  London's  house, 
touching  London's  things,  fingering  its  monu- 
ments, and  testing  its  internal  communications. 
They  go  by  the  South  London  Electric  Railway  by 


THE   JUBILEE  195 

the  half-dozen  together.  "Just  one  station  to  see 
what  it  feels  like;"  and  ''Have  some,"  says  Darby, 
pulling  a  neatly  half-peeled  orange  out  of  his  tail- 
pocket;  "it'll  freshen  you  up."  They  all  freshen 
us  up.     But  we  can't  be  angry  with  them. 

It  is  all  very  ridiculous,  if  you  like  to  take  it  that 
way.  But  if  you  like  to  take  it  the  other  way,  it  is 
also  very  sublime.  Go  into  the  smoke-soiled  back 
streets,  off  the  line  of  route.  There  you  will  find  in 
one  house  a  poor  little  Union-Jack  sticking  up  its 
undaunted  head  out  of  the  top  corner  of  a  broken 
window.  Next  door  to  it  is  a  Royal  Standard — a 
cheap  brand  of  flag,  it  appears,  for  it  has  only  one 
side,  and  the  back  is  a  formless  jumble  of  blue  and 
red  and  yellow  threads.  Next  to  it  again  is  a  home- 
made V.R. — trace  with  a  piece  of  pencil  on  a  piece 
of  paper;  cut  the  red  cloth  to  the  pattern,  and 
fasten  it  up  with  tin-tacks.  You  need  to  see  the 
Jubilee  decorations  in  little  before  you  appreciate 
the  meaning  of  it  all  in  gross.  These  poky  little 
flags  and  red  letters  are  the  key-note  of  it  all. 
London  is  settling  down  to  play :  but  all  through 
the  game  it  never  forgets  the  love  and  reverence 
for  the  mother  who  inspires  it. 


11. 

QUEEN   AND   EMPIRE. 

The  Queen's  procession  has  passed.     It  is  over, 
and  we  are  all  the  richer  and  all  the  better  for  it. 


10  THINGS   SEEN 

We  have  seen  a  sight  the  like  of  which  no  eye  has 
seen  since  the  world  began.  We  do  not  know 
whether  we  want  to  laugh  or  to  cry.  But  how 
proud,  how  proud  we  all  must  be  to-day ! 

At  St.  Paul's  it  began  like  any  other  show.  We 
were  boxed  up  between  the  pillars  and  the  w-all  in  a 
little  cage  of  carpentry.  There  were  pillars  in  front 
of  us,  and  I  doubt  if  people  quite  realise  the  massive 
stability  of  the  pillars  in  the  portico  of  St.  Paul's 
until  in  the  exercise  of  their  professional  duty  they 
are  called  upon  to  see  through  them.  There  were 
also  beams  across  the  pillars,  and  across  the  line 
of  sight.  But  never  mind  all  that;  we  could  see 
down  Ludgate  Hill.  And  Ludgate  Hill  was  be- 
decked and  bedraped  as  I  never  saw  any  street 
before  in  London  or  anywhere  else.  Pale  purple, 
pale  gold,  and  pale  green — masts  and  hanging 
brackets  and  swinging  garlands — a  long,  drooping 
vista  of  pillars  and  capitals  and  festoons,  all  softly 
harmonious.  Any  decoration  can  make  a  street 
brilliant  if  there  is  enough  of  it,  but  Ludgate  Hill 
was  beautiful.  It  was  quite  transformed  from  the 
sooty,  busy  Ludgate  Hill  of  work-days.  Under  the 
still  shy,  half-watery  sunlight  it  dipped  down  to  the 
railway  bridge,  this  also  flagged  and  flowered  for 
the  great  day,  with  two  girls  in  white  in  the  centre 
for  a  focus,  and  then  sloped  up  through  the  Circus 
to  Fleet  Street,  with  the  turret  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall 
crowning  the  distance.  It  was  all  a  sheen  with  a 
mellow  radiance,  still  enough  for  dignity,  but  yet 
shimmering  with   life.     For  the  chief  of  all   the 


THE   JUBILEE  197 

decorations  were  the  masses  of  swaying  white  and 
pink  in  the  windows,  Hning-  every  house  from 
foundation  to  topmost  storey  and  massed  on  every 
roof.  London  had  decorated  itself  with  London- 
ers, and  with  men  and  women  from  every  part  of 
England  and  every  inch  of  the  world  where  people 
stand  up  for  "God  save  the  Queen." 

It  began  like  any  other  show,  with  a  maze  of  gay- 
coloured  women  looking  for  their  seats,  with  foot- 
guards  marching  through  the  barrier  to  the  top  of 
Ludgate  Hill  and  lining  up  along  the  churchyard 
pavement.  There  were  the  ponderous  vans  labelled 
"City  Commissioner  of  Sewers"  lumbering  between 
the  banks  of  colour,  as  if  the  Empire  had  turned 
out  to  see  them  scatter  sand.  Then  the  place 
cleared ;  the  last  summer  gown  fluttered  to  its  own 
place;  the  scarlet  guardsmen  were  all  in  position; 
the  last  sand-cart  lumbered  away  eastward.  All 
was  ready ;  we  waited  for  it  to  begin. 

It  began,  as  it  should  begin,  with  the  fleet. 
Swinging  and  dancing  up  the  hill  came  the  tilted 
straw  hats  of  the  naval  guard  of  honour.  The 
fifes  screamed  out,  "They  All  Love  Jack."  And 
how  they  do  love  Jack  ;  how  the  hill  and  the  church- 
yard thundered !  And  how  worthy  Jack  is  to  be 
loved.  Clean  limbs,  strong  bodies,  trim,  alert,  re- 
sourceful, self-reliant,  their  buoyant  march  quivered 
with  young  life;  their  eyes  were  set  with 
the  steadfast  calm  of  men  who  have  been  left  alone 
with  God's  wonders  at  sea.  Beside  them  marched 
their  bearded  captains  and  lieutenants,  quiet,  self- 


198  THINGS   SEEN 

possessed,  intent  on  the  business  they  know  and 
love ;  and  their  middies,  pink-faced  boys,  already 
men  in  self-command  and  the  habit  of  commanding 
others.  There  was  good  marching  after  that,  but 
no  marching  so  elastic  as  this.  The  sight  of  that 
magnificent  guard  was  worth  the  whole  day's  prep- 
araltions  in  itself.  We  felt  we  could  never  go 
wrong  with  these  men.  And  how  good  to  feel 
that  we  were  showing  them  to  the  representatives 
of  every  nation  on  earth — showing  them  the  finest 
force  in  the  whole  world. 

They  formed  up  and  we  waited  again.  Another 
clash  of  music  from  beyond  the  railway  bridge,  and 
we  were  looking  at  what  all  England  was  longing  to 
look  at — the  Colonials.  But  first  a  scarlet-plumed 
figure  on  a  white  horse  pacing  up  the  street,  and  all 
the  street  breaking  into  a  roar  as  he  came  up. 
Roberts !  Three  cheers  for  Roberts  !  Bobs,  Bobs, 
Bobs!  What  a  proud  and  beautiful  horse,  that 
hardly  felt  the  ground  it  trod  on,  and  what  a  man ! 
Hard-bitten,  tanned  face,  the  white  moustache  sit- 
ting firmly  on  the  firm  mouth,  bolt  upright,  yet  easy 
in  the  saddle — Lord  Roberts  was  every  inch  a  sol- 
dier and  a  captain  of  men.  When  Sir  Charles 
Napier  first  heard  Braham  sing  he  went  up  to  him 
and  said,  "Sir,  it  is  men  like  you  that  make  men  like 
us."  It  is  men  like  Lord  Roberts  that  make  queens 
like  Queen  Victoria. 

The  cheers  sank,  but  they  did  not  die,  for  before 
there  was  time  for  that  we  were  looking  at  the 
Colonials.     In  the  carriages  we  saw  the  square, 


THE   JUBILEE  199 

strong,  invincibly  sensible  faces  of  the  men  who  are 
building  up  great  nations,  new  big  Englands,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  Between  the  carriages 
rode  and  tramped  the  men  who  guard  the  building, 
and  who  carry  British  peace  and  British  law  into  the 
wildest  places  of  the  earth.  Lean,  hard-knit  Can- 
adians, long-legged,  yellow  Australians,  all  in  one 
piece  with  their  horses,  giant,  long-eyed  Maoris, 
sitting  loosely  and  leaning  back  curiously  from  the 
waist,  burned  South  Africans,  upstanding  Sikhs, 
tiny  lithe  Malays  and  Dyaks,  Chinese  with  a  white 
basin  turned  upside-down  on  their  heads,  grinning 
Hausas,  so  dead  black  that  they  shone  silver  in  the 
sun — white  men,  yellow  men,  brown  men,  black 
men,  every  colour,  every  continent,  every  race, 
every  speech, — and  all  in  arms  for  the  British  Em- 
pire and  the  British  Queen.  Up  they  came,  more 
and  more,  new  types,  new  realms  at  every  couple  of 
yards,  an  anthropological  museum — a  living  gazet- 
teer of  the  British  empire.  With  them  came  their 
English  ofificers,  whom  they  obey  and  follow  like 
children.  And  you  began  to  understand,  as  never 
before,  what  the  Empire  amounts  to.  Not  only  that 
we  possess  all  these  remote  outlandish  places,  and 
can  bring  men  from  every  end  of  the  earth  to  join 
us  in  honouring  our  Queen,  but  also  that  all  these 
peoples  are  working,  not  simply  under  us,  but  with 
us — that  we  send  out  a  boy  here  and  a  boy  there, 
and  the  boy  takes  hold  of  the  savages  of  the  part  he 
comes  to  and  teaches  them  to  march  and  shoot  as 
he  tells  them,  to  obey  him  and  believe  in  him  and 


200  THINGS    SEEN 

die  for  him  and  the  Queen.  A  plain,  stupid,  un- 
inspired people,  they  call  us,  and  yet  we  are  doing 
this  with  every  kind  of  savage  man  there  is.  And 
each  one  of  us — you  and  I,  and  that  man  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves at  the  corner — is  a  working  part  of  this 
world-shaping  force.  How  small  you  must  feel  in 
face  of  the  stupendous  whole,  and  yet  how  great  to 
be  a  unit  in  it ! 

The  British  Empire  fell  in  along  the  pavement,  at 
the  top  of  Ludgate  Hill,  and  round  the  churchyard, 
and  there  waited.  Presently  there  was  another  stir 
and  bustle  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  another 
burst  of  brass.  There  came  into  sight  under  the 
bridge  and  up  the  hill  a  moving  wall  of  men  and 
horses.  First  more  bluejackets,  trailing  their  guns 
behind  them,  hauling  on  to  the  ropes  so  steadily  and 
evenly  that  the  guns  seemed  to  be  alive  and  walking 
of  themselves.  Then  cavalry  and  guns — now 
massed  bands  crashing  out  music,  now  serried 
squadrons,  now  gliding  horse-batteries.  They 
came  like  a  wall,  as  close,  as  perfectly  even,  and  level 
and  smooth;  the  squadrons  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  put  together  with  a  spirit-level  and  trimmed 
with  a  plane.  The  approach  to  the  Cathedral 
was  a  blaze  of  blue  and  scarlet ;  the  sun  on  swords 
and  helmets  laced  the  blue  and  scarlet  with  gold. 
The  eye  was  filled  with  splendour,  but  fresh  splen- 
dour came  crowding  in  on  it.  The  advancing 
pageant  shifted  and  loosened  and  came  up  in  opener 
order.  But  as  the  mass  of  colour  became  less 
massive,   it  became    more  wonderfully    coloured. 


THE   JUBILEE  201 

Here,  riding  three  and  three,  came  a  kaleidoscope 
of  dazzhng  horsemen — equerries  and  aides-de-camp 
and  attaches,  ambassadors  and  princes,  all  the 
pomp  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Scarlet  and 
gold,  azure  and  gold,  purple  and  gold,  emerald  and 
gold,  white  and  gold — always  a  changing  tumult  of 
colours  that  seemed  to  list  and  gleam  with  a  light  of 
their  own,  and  always  blinding  gold.  It  was 
enough.  No  eye  could  bear  more  gorgeousness ; 
no  more  gorgeousness  could  be,  unless  princes  are 
to  clothe  themselves  in  rainbows  and  the  very  sun. 
The  prelude  was  played,  and  now  the  great  moment 
was  at  hand.  Already  the  carriages  were  rolling  up 
full  of  the  Queen's  kindred,  full  of  her  children  and 
children's  children.  But  we  hardly  looked  at  them. 
Down  there,  through  an  avenue  of  eager  faces, 
through  a  storm  of  white  waving  handkerchiefs, 
through  roaring  volleys  of  cheers,  there  was  ap- 
proaching a  carriage  drawn  by  eight  cream- 
coloured  horses.  The  roar  surged  up  the  street, 
keeping  pace  with  the  eight  horses.  The  carriage 
passed  the  barrier ;  it  entered  the  churchyard ;  it 
wheeled  left  and  then  right ;  it  drew  up  at  the  very 
steps  of  the  Cathedral ;  we  all  leaped  up ;  cheers 
broke  into  screams,  and  enthusiasm  swelled  to  de- 
lirium ;  the  sun,  watery  till  now,  shone  out  sud- 
denly clear  and  dry,  and  there — and  there 

And  there  was  a  little,  plain,  flushed  old  lady. 
All  in  black,  a  silver  streak  under  the  black  bonnet, 
a  simple  white  sunshade,  sitting  quite  still,  with  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  drawn  tight,  as  if  she  were 


202  THINGS    SEEN 

trying  not  to  cry.  But  that  old  lady  was  the 
Queen,  and  you  knew  it.  You  didn't  want  to  look 
at  the  glittering  uniforms  now,  nor  yet  at  the  bright 
gowns  and  the  young  faces  in  the  carriages,  nor  yet 
at  the  stately  princes — though  by  now  all  these  were 
ranged  in  a  half  circle  around  her.  You  couldn't 
look  at  anybody  but  the  Queen.  So  very  quiet,  so 
very  grave,  so  very  punctual,  so  unmistakably  and 
every  inch  a  lady  and  a  Queen.  Almost  pathetic, 
if  you  will,  that  small  black  figure  in  the  middle  of 
these  shining  cavaliers,  this  great  army,  this  roaring 
multitude ;  but  also  very  glorious.  When  the  other 
kings  of  the  world  drive  abroad,  the  escort  rides 
close  in  at  the  wheels  of  the  carriage ;  the  Queen 
drove  through  her  people  quite  plain  and  open,  with 
just  one  soldier  at  the  kerbstone  between  her  and 
them.  Why  not?  They  are  quite  free;  they  have 
no  cause  to  fear  her ;  they  have  much  cause  to  love 
her.  Was  it  not  all  for  her — the  gala  trappings  of 
the  streets,  the  men  and  horses  and  guns,  the  living 
walls  of  British  men  and  women?  For  the  Queen 
summed  up  all  that  had  gone  before,  all  the  soldiers 
and  sailors,  the  big-limbed  colonial,  the  strange 
men  from  unheard-of  islands  oversea.  We  knew 
now  what  that  which  had  come  before  all  stood  for ; 
we  knew  as  we  had  never  known  before  what  the 
Queen  stands  for.  The  Empire  had  come  together 
to  revere  and  bless  the  mother  of  the  Empire.  The 
mother  of  the  Empire  had  come  to  do  homage  to  the 
one  Being  more  majestic  than  she. 

There  were  the  archbishops  and  the  bishops  and 


THE   JUBILEE  203 

the  deans  in  gold  and  crimson  caps  and  white  and 
orange  and  gold-embroidered  vestments,  waiting  on 
the  steps.  There,  through  the  gaps  in  the  pillars 
and  scaffoldings,  you  could  see  all  her  Ministers 
and  great  men — a  strange  glimpse  of  miniature 
faces  as  in  some  carefully  laboured  picture  where 
each  face  stands  for  an  honoured  name.  All  stood, 
and  the  choir  sang  the  Te  Deum.  The  Queen  put 
on  her  glasses  and  looked  gravely  at  the  shoal  of 
grave  faces.  Next  rose  up  a  melodious  voice  in- 
toning prayers.  The  Queen  bowed  her  head. 
Then  the  whole  choir  and  company  outside  the 
Cathedral  and  the  whole  company  in  the  stands  and 
at  the  windows  and  on  the  housetops  and  away 
down  the  street,  all  standing,  all  uncovered,  began 
to  sing  the  Hundredth  Psalm.  "Come  ye  before 
Him  and  rejoice :"  the  Queen's  lips  were  tight,  and 
her  eyes — perhaps  it  was  fancy — looked  dim.  But 
then  "Three  cheers  for  the  Queen!"  and  the  dean — 
pious  man ! — was  wildly  waving  that  wonderful 
crimson  cap,  and  the  pillars  and  roofs  were  ringing 
as  if  they  must  come  down.  Then  "God  Save  the 
Queen" — a  lusty  peal,  till  you  felt  drowned  in 
sound.  The  Queen  looked  up  and  smiled.  And 
the  Queen's  smile  was  the  end  and  crown  of  it  all. 
A  smile  that  broke  down  the  sad  mouth,  a  smile 
that  seemed  half-reluctant — so  wistful,  yet  so  kind, 
so  sincere,  so  motherly. 
God  Save  the  Queen ! 


204  THINGS   SEEN 


III. 


TO  VIEW  THE  ILLUMINATIONS. 
{An  Agricultural  Household  on  an  Omnibus.) 

We  are  not  showing  anything  at  the  Royal  this 
year — not,  of  course,  that  our  beasts  are  not  good 
enough  to  show.  The  truth  is  they  are  too  good — 
and  assuredly  too  much  beloved — to  be  exposed  to 
the  journey  to  Manchester  and  back  in  weather  like 
this.  So  it  was  felt  that  something  might  be  done 
with  a  clear  conscience  to  celebrate  the  Diamond 
Jubilee.  To  leave  the  sacred  beasts  by  daytime  was 
naturally  out  of  the  question,  so  it  must  be  some 
evening.  The  illuminations  it  must  be.  The  il- 
luminations from  an  omnibus !  And  Wednesday 
would  be  a  nice  quiet  day  for  it.  On  Wednesday 
the  excitement  of  Tuesday  would  be  dying  away; 
we  could  just  nip  in  on  Wednesday,  when  every- 
body else  had  seen  the  show  and  was  going  early  to 
bed.  Nothing,  moreover,  was  expected  to  foal, 
farrow,  calve,  or  hatch  on  Wednesday.  Nothing 
even  showed  any  sign  of  immediate  death. 
Heather  and  the  infant  calf  were  doing  as  well  as 
could  be  expected,  and  no  more  bulletins  were  to 
be  issued ;  the  foals  and  the  goslings  would  be 
neither  more  nor  less  incorrigible  alone  than  with 
nine  infants  to  correct  their  misdemeanours ;  Peter 
and  John,  wrongfully  accused  of  diphtheria,  had 
picked  up  wonderfully  under  a  strengthening  diet 


THE    JUBILEE  20$ 

of  beef,  brandy,  roup-pills,  and  the  dogs'  dinners. 
Yes,  for  one  evening,  perhaps,  we  could  dare  to 
leave  them  alone.  And  the  gardener's  brother-in- 
law  had  kindly  consented  to  patrol  the  place,  firing 
salutes  from  a  shot-gun  to  the  glory  of  Her  Majesty 
and  the  confusion  of  all  poachers. 

The  omnibus  was  duly  hired — five  guineas,  to  be 
paid  out  of  the  profits  of  the  barren  Shetland  mare, 
when  anybody  has  the  sense  to  pay  the  price  for 
her.  The  railway  carriage  had  been  reserved,  both 
ways.  The  children  were  all  carefully  festooned 
with  Jubilee  medals  and  Jubilee  ribbons  and  filled 
to  the  brim — filled,  in  Willie's  sad  case,  even  to 
overflowing — with  Jubilee  cake  and  tea.  All  was 
ready — when  the  ducks,  the  pious  ducks,  the  only 
children  who  had  never  given  a  moment's  anxiety, 
seized  the  occasion  to  begin  to  die.  They  actually 
refused  food ;  they  flopped  themselves  on  to  their 
backs,  waggled  their  yellow  legs  heavenward,  and 
quacked  feebly  at  the  sun.  We  gasped.  In  any 
other  beast  it  would  have  been  but  natural ;  if  the 
ducks  were  going  to  turn  against  us  and  die  we 
were  ruined  indeed.  All  was  done  that  man  can 
do ;  it  always  is  at  our  farm,  where  prodigies  of 
labour  balance  the  want  of  land  and  capital ;  and  it 
is  generally  done  in  vain.  However,  we  buried  the 
ringleader,  the  ungrateful  wretch  that  had  set  the 
example  of  decease,  isolated  his  two  principal  ac- 
complices, after  steeping  them  carefully  in  water, 
and  soaked  their  run  from  innumerable  cans  and 
buckets — think  of    it,  in  the  sun  of    Wednesday 


206  THINGS   SEEN 

afternoon ! — till  it  was  as  near  a  pond  as  is  con- 
sistent with  not  swimming  off  marketable  flesh. 
They  came  to  a  better  frame  of  mind  towards  even- 
ing, and  condescended  to  cram  their  crops  as  usual. 
We  had  done  all  we  could.  We  tried  not  to  think 
of  them;  we  paraded  at  the  back-gate,  twenty-six 
strong — twenty-six  weak  would,  perhaps,  be  the 
correcter  way  to  put  it — to  be  joined  by  a  flying 
column  of  three  at  London  Bridge.  We  marched 
to  the  station ;  we  hoisted  in  the  cake-laden  infants ; 
we  were  off.     To  view  the  illuminations ! 

We  beguiled  the  journey  with  light-hearted 
prattle  about  the  misadventures  which  might  prob- 
ably befall  us.  The  ordinary  imaginative  mind 
dwelt  deeply  on  the  likelihood  that  the  omnibus 
might  upset.  The  fancy  of  bandy-legged,  owl-eyed 
Septimus  soared  higher ;  the  two  ruling  passions  of 
his  life  being  engines  and  hospitals,  his  mind  and 
cheerful  conversation  ran  rather  to  railway  acci- 
dents. He  estimates  the  desirability  of  a  residence 
by  the  probability  of  finding  an  engine  standing  in 
the  nearest  station ;  while,  having  been  an  inmate 
of  most  of  the  hospitals,  and  having  had  his  toys 
unintentionally  broken  by  half  the  eminent  surgeons 
of  London,  he  is  an  acknowledged  expert  on  frac- 
tured limbs.  So  that  when  he  declared  of  his  per- 
sonal knowledge  that  the  rails  were  breaking  under 
the  stress  of  Jubilee  traffic,  he  was  listened  to  with 
quaking  attention.  Until  Eddy  cut  him  out  with 
the  apprehension  that  the  illuminations  might  set 
his  new  straw  hat  on  fire. 


THE    JUBILEE  207 

Amid  general  disappointment  all  arrived  safely 
at  London  Bridge.  But  the  sight  of  the  clean 
omnibus  standing  empty  and  expectant  paid  for  all. 
An  omnibus  with  horses,  driver,  and  conductor 
complete,  that  can't  go  without  you,  that  stops  and 
goes,  fast  or  slow,  and  turns  up  this  street  or  that 
at  a  word  from  the  master  or  the  missis — this  is  not 
a  joy  vouchsafed  to  everybody.  The  top  of  an 
omnibus,  in  theory,  holds  about  eighteen ;  we  got 
twenty-seven  on.  With  loud  and  prolonged 
screams  we  debouched  into  the  Borough. 

Ah!  Ee!  I-i-i!  Oh-h-h!  Uh-h-h-h!  Every 
vowel  Avas  tried,  but  no  vowel  could  do  justice  to 
the  emotions  !  Look  at  them  flags !  Look  at  they 
seats !  Look  at  them  flowers !  Look  at  they  peo- 
ple !  I  am  thankful  to  think  that  we  were  not 
wholly  unconspicuous,  even  in  the  Borough.  The 
untutored  inhabitants  tried  some  of  their  local  wit 
upon  us,  but  it  was  quite  wasted ;  we  took  it  quite 
literally.  When  they  asked — what  more  natural  ? — 
where  we  went  to  school,  we  gave  the  name  readily 
and  politely,  explaining  that  we  had  a  month's  holi- 
day, and  meantime  were  having  lessons  at  home. 
When  they  inquired, — as  anybody  would  who  did 
not  know  us,  and  how  well  we  can  take  care  of  our- 
selves— whether  our  mothers  knew  we  were  out,  we 
introduced  our  mothers,  as  a  reassuring  proof  that 
they  were  out  too.  The  driver  kindly  pointed  out 
the  principal  objects  of  interest,  such  as  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament; 
but,  though  we  came  from  the  country,  we  hardly 


208  THINGS   SEEN 

needed  it.  Nearly  all  of  us  had  been  in  London  be- 
fore; some  of  us  know  it  very  well,  though  we  are 
succeeding  in  forgetting  it.  London  has  not  be- 
haved well  to  our  household,  taking  it  as  a  whole. 
We  can  get  on  quite  well  without  disease  or  star- 
vation, or  being  sold  for  a  penny,  or  assaulted  with 
intent  to  kill,  and  we  don't  mind  if  we  never  see 
London  again.  Still  there  is  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  knowing  the  river  Thames  when  you  see  it. 
And  Joe,  despite  the  fact  that  he  all  but  cut  both 
hands  oflf  in  the  pond-sluice  the  other  day  and  still 
reeks  of  iodoform,  perked  up  at  the  sight  of  a 
racin'  four-oar.  "I  know  all  this  place,  I  do,"  he 
remarked,  confidently,  having  spent  the  first  three 
of  his  eleven  years  in  Chelsea.  We  know  London 
well  enough,  some  of  us ;  only  as  the  parts  we  know 
best  are  mostly  being  pulled  down  by  the  County 
Council,  or  raided  by  the  police,  we  mayn't  know 
it  very  long. 

Hence  there  are  some  things  new  even  to  us. 
V-I-N-O-L-I-A  going  in  and  out  in  red  and  white ; 
how  is  that  for  a  wonder  of  the  world  ?  The  crowns 
and  stars  and  V.R.'s — a  mistake,  by  the  way,  for  we 
know  that  queen  begins  with  Q,  not  R — and  1837's 
and  1897's  and  "God — bless — our — Queen"  ;  why, 
we  can  read  it  all.  Look  at  that  light  spinning 
round !  You'd  think  'twould  put  he  out  to  spin 
round  like  that.  Look  at  that  bridge  across  the 
street.  Now  we  can't  go  any  farther;  we  didn't 
know  there  were  so  many  omnibuses  in  the  world. 
And  Eddy,  relieved  by  finding  his  hat  still  uncon- 


THE   JUBILEE  209 

sumed,  remarked,  "It  must  be  lovely  to  be  a  queen." 
If  Eddy  were  queen  this  sort  of  Jubilee  would  hap- 
pen every  night.  But  to  Seppy's  mind  the  decor- 
ations presented  one  unexplained  feature  which  had 
to  be  cleared  up.  "What  happened  in  1897?"  he 
wanted  to  know. 

Then  Tubsy  spoke.  Tubsy  does  not  speak  often, 
but  when  he  does  he  speaks  to  the  point.  He  is 
employed  on  the  lighter  branches  of  farm-work,  at 
which  he  is  worth  some  four  men  and  a  boy,  on  a 
living  wage  of  about  a  penny  a  month.  When  he 
reaches  the  age  of  four  he  may  receive  even  more. 
Already  he  is  wont  to  groom  the  cows  with  a  dandy 
brush,  and  then  stands  long  before  them  in  silent 
adoration.  "Don't  they  look  nice  now  I've  done 
they  up,"  he  remarks  at  last.  His  special  charge 
is  the  calves.  "I  think  the  caaves  love  me,"  he 
reflected  the  other  day,  and  I  think  they  do;  only 
they  know  that  the  great  sahib  Tubsy  is  not  a  per- 
son to  be  trifled  with.  Now  Tubsy  had  leaned 
against  the  rail  of  the  omnibus  by  the  space  of  an 
hour,  his  head  tilted  upwards  like  a  drinking  fowl's, 
gazing  raptly  upon  the  variegated  coming  and  go- 
ing of  that  blessed  word  "Bovril"  as  one  who  is 
caught  up  into  Paradise  and  sees  wonderful  things. 
Then  he  turned  slowly  round,  and  his  dark,  solemn 
eyes  fell  on  all  of  us  in  turn.  The  lips  parted  in  the 
nut-brown  face,  and  he  put  a  question  to  the  com- 
pany: "Who's  mindin'  the  caaves?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  conscience.  Who,  if  it  camic 
to  that,  was  minding  the  diseased  ducks?    Who 


210  THINGS   SEEN 

was  seeing-  that  the  Little  Minister,  that  promising 
stallion,  was  not  chasing  the  fowls?  The  foster- 
mother  had  refused  to  go  below  no  in  the  heat  of 
the  day;  who  was  regulating  its  temperature  now? 
The  omnibus  still  crawled  on,  but  the  illuminations 
had  lost  something.  "I  bet  there's  a  V.R.  near  that 
crown,"  said  Eddy,  with  a  well-meaning  desire  to 
liven  things ;  nobody  took  him  up.  The  thought 
that  the  beasts  might  want  refreshment  and  nobody 
there  to  give  it  began  to  weigh  upon  all  minds. 
Suppose  we  missed  the  train  and  there  was  nobody 
to  milk  the  cows  in  the  morning? 

It  was  more  than  anybody  could  be  asked  to  bear. 
We  got  down  and  left  the  omnibus  derelict  in  a 
block ;  each  grown  person  seized  a  child,  and  in 
columns  of  families  we  made  for  the  station.  We 
got  there  panting — with  thirty-seven  minutes  to 
spare.  We  piled  ourselves  up  in  a  corner,  and 
some  of  us  went  to  sleep  and  some  had  beer,  and 
we  got  large  glasses  of  soda-water  and  poured 
them  down  the  children.  But  what  an  air,  when  we 
got  out  at  our  own  station,  where  the  people  know 
us.  The  cool  and  the  freshness,  the  hay  and  the 
roses !  It  was  good  to  get  home,  and  nothing  had 
died  except  one  chicken.  Thank  goodness! 
"And  I've  enjoyed  myself  very  much,"  observed 
Willy,  complacently.  As  he  had  been  sick  steadily 
in  train  and  omnibus,  we  may  assume,  a  fortiori, 
that  the  others  enjoyed  themselves  too. 


THE   JUBILEE  2il 

IV. 

THE  GREAT  REVIEW. 

Portsmouth  as  an  institution  is  the  headquarters 
of  the  British  navy.  Portsmouth  as  a  dwelHng- 
place  is  a  strange  minghng  of  a  seventeenth-cen- 
tury country  town,  an  eighteenth-century  watering- 
place,  a  flashy  seaside  resort  of  to-day,  and  a 
slummy  seaport  of  all  time. 

Houses  as  quaint  as  Staple  Inn,  back  squares  as 
dignified  as  Georgian  Brighton  or  Weymouth,  are 
sandwiched  between  eligible  boarding-houses  and 
fishy  rum-shops.  Portsmouth  is  a  history  of  the 
British  navy  worked  out  in  buildings.  But  to-day, 
old  and  new,  all  wear  the  same  livery  of  blazing 
bunting.  Bunting,  we  may  assume,  is  plentiful  in 
Portsmouth  if  anywhere,  but  you  would  have  hardly 
thought  there  was  so  much  of  it  in  any  given  town 
on  earth  as  Portsmouth  is  clothed  with  to-day. 
You  cannot  see  the  town  for  the  flags.  Portsmouth 
is  tapestried  with  them,  walled  with  them,  roofed 
with  them,  everything  but  floored  with  them.  Every 
kind  of  flag  in  every  kind  of  place ;  none  of  the  for- 
eign blue-jackets  need  go  unhappy  for  want  of  his 
national  colours.  The  crescent  of  Turkey  flaps 
across  the  street,  side  by  side  with  the  chrysanthe- 
mum of  Japan.  Next  to  them  the  Kaiser's  eagle 
pecks  at  a  recondite  ensign  bearing  a  sun  in  the 
left-hand  top  corner,  and  a  forest  of  blue  and  white 
bars,  which  may  stand  for  Uruguay  or  San  Do- 
mingo or  Liberia  for  aught  I  know.     The  sailors  of 


212  .        THINGS   SEEN 

the  King-  of  Siam's  yacht  will  doubtless  find  their 
native  elephant  displayed  in  its  due  place,  though 
I  have  not  discovered  it  yet. 

Portsmouth  is  at  this  moment  not  merely  the 
headquarters  of  the  British  navy,  but  the  generous 
host  of  every  navy  that  musters  in  the  world.  There 
is  no  mistake  about  the  loyalty  of  Portsmouth. 
You  may  not  find  here  Ludgate  Hills  or  St.  James's 
Streets,  Arcadian  avenues  of  green  or  fairy  palaces 
of  light.  Portsmouth  is  a  plain  town,  mainly  en- 
gaged in  sending  Her  Majesty's  ships  to  sea  as 
efficiently  as  may  be,  and  has  neither  time  nor 
money  for  pantomime  effects ;  but  having  started 
out  to  befiag  itself,  Portsmouth  has  befiagged  itself 
with  a  will  from  top  to  bottom,  from  town-hall  and 
grand  hotel  to  lodging-house  and  cottage.  The 
elegant  villas  of  Southsea  are  gay,  but  the  alleys 
of  Gosport  are  even  gayer.  Look  down  each  nar- 
row, dark,  smelly  little  court,  you  will  find  it  hung 
across  and  across  with  flags- — flags  drooping  out 
of  the  windows,  fiags  spread-eagled  on  the  walls. 
"Long  hath  she  reigned !"  is  by  now,  perhaps,  a 
little  trite  as  a  piece  of  news,  even  though  it  be 
reinforced  with  the  figures  that  give  arithmetical 
demonstration  of  its  truth.  All  the  same,  you  don't 
call  such  vigorous  attention  to  the  fact  unless  you 
are  glad  that  she  hath  reigned  long.  But  judged 
by  such  signs,  the  poorest  streets  of  Portsmouth 
are  very  glad  indeed.  The  popular  joy  goes  much 
deeper  into  the  back  streets  than  it  does  in  London 
itself. 


THE   JUBILEE  213 

But  comparisons  are  invidious.  The  whole  coun- 
try is  as  loyal  as  itself,  and  it  could  not  be  more. 
On  the  way  down,  every  suburb,  country  town,  and 
village  —  Surbiton,  Guildford,  Haslemere,  Liss  — 
added  its  show  of  flags.  Every  little  labourer's  cot- 
tage had  its  Union-Jack  stuck  jauntily  at  the  top 
of  the  highest  tree.  It  is  the  whole  nation  which 
is  celebrating  this  Jubilee — there  is  no  room  to 
doubt  that — and  patriotic  satisfaction  in  this  cer- 
tainly went  a  long  way  to  mitigate  the  sutterings  of 
the  journey.  For  all  the  world  is  pouring  out  of 
London,  just  as  a  few  days  ago  it  was  pouring  in. 

The  booking-ofifice  at  Waterloo  suggested  a  com- 
bination of  the  boat-race,  Ascot,  and  Cowes.  Peo- 
ple slung  with  field-glasses  swarmed  up  and  down 
the  packed  trains,  and  then  sank  weakly  back  to 
wait  for  the  next,  which  was  coming  in  five  min- 
utes, rather  more  tightly  packed  than  the  last.  All 
the  trains  are  coming  down,  but  none  are  going 
back.  I  saw  a  corpulent  Midland  special  calmly 
bivouacked  on  the  South-Western  line  at  Fratton ; 
they  are  waiting  till  after  the  great  to-morrow,  for 
an  Englishman  who  leaves  Portsmouth  to-day  is 
no  countryman  of  Nelson's.  Where  in  the  mean- 
time Portsmouth  hides  its  rolling  stock  I  know  not, 
unless  it  has  stacked  it  all  in  the  docks.  There 
is  plenty  of  room  in  them,  for  all  Her  Majesty's 
ships  have  gone  out  to  Spithead  to  keep  Her  Majes- 
ty's Jubilee. 

Portsmouth  is  patrolled  by  the  intelligent  strang- 
er— cockney,  countryman,  and   foreigner.     He   is 


214  THINGS   SEEN 

here  in  all  his  kinds  and  all  his  thousands,  flourish- 
ing his  guide-book  in  the  native  face,  and  Ports- 
mouth is  probably  beginning  to  learn  as  much 
about  its  local  antiquities  and  objects  of  interest 
as  we  have  lately  been  forced  to  do  in  London. 
Camera  on  back,  studious  of  the  guide-book  and 
with  peering  eye  cocked  above  it,  the  tourist  makes 
his  house-to-house  visitation  of  the  town,  or  per- 
ambulates the  empty  dockyard,  or  pays  his  penny 
toll  with  righteous  indignation  at  Haslar  Bridge. 

But  the  chief  sight  at  Portsmouth  remains — its 
ships  and  men.  Just  now  both  ships  and  men  are 
supplemented  from  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  till 
Portsmouth  is  like  an  enlarged  and  improved  re- 
production of  the  blockade  of  Crete. 

The  foreign  bluejacket  roams  unchecked  from 
fruit-stall  to  tobacco-shops,  conversing  affably,  as 
his  manner  is,  without  understanding  the  inhabi- 
tants or  being  understood  by  them.  This  afternoon 
there  were  black-browed  little  Spaniards,  tall,  dull- 
eyed  Russians,  and  heavy-limbed  Germans  all  pass- 
ing up  and  down  the  streets,  under  their  own 
swinging  flags  and  everybody  else's.  It  may  be 
blind-eyed  national  prejudice,  but  none  of  them 
seemed  to  me  to  possess  just  that  combination  of 
supple  strength  and  resourceful  resolution  that  is 
the  hall-mark  of  our  own  beloved  bluejacket.  But 
it  is  not  polite  to  say  this  just  now,  especially  seeing 
that  it  is  quite  understood  that  they  are  all  fine 
fellows.  Essentially  harmonious  and  joyful  was  a 
party  of  three  German  bluejackets,  being  shown 


THE   JUBILEE  215 

round  by  a  bugler  from  a  line  regiment.  He  was 
prattling  away  in  London  English,  and  they  an- 
swered fluently  in  North  German.  They  were 
making  remarks  about  the  shops :  he  was  under 
the  impression  that  the  subject  of  conversation  was 
Spanish  bluejackets.  "They  none  of  'em  under- 
stand English,"  he  said,  not  without  a  touch  of 
scorn. 

And  what  about  the  fleet  all  this  time  ?  Well,  the 
fleet  is  there,  I  know  on  the  very  best  authority. 
But  to-day  the  fleet  is  lying  out  there  between 
Portsmouth  and  the  Isle  of  Wight,  ship  after  ship, 
line  upon  line.  But  for  to-day  the  fleet  has  veiled 
itself  in  haze  from  premature  curiosity.  You  will 
see  it  in  all  its  majesty  in  due  season.  Meanwhile, 
the  sky  over  Portsmouth  is  thick  and  heavy,  as  with 
the  soot  of  many  chimneys.  You  may  stand  and 
look  out  to  sea,  but  you  will  hardly  find  the  fleet. 
The  grey  sea  is  scored  by  the  wake  of  a  fleet  of 
launches  coming  in  and  going  out ;  here  and  there 
is  a  white  boat  with  men  in  blue  tugging  rhyth- 
mically at  the  oars,  and  a  dark  still  figure  in  the 
stern.  But  the  boats  dive  behind  the  curtain  of 
mist,  and  you  cannot  trace  them  to  their  homes. 

Only  when  the  sun  shines  can  you  see  the  pale 
gleaming  outline  of  what  looks  like  an  enormous 
city.  Left  and  right  it  stretches  for  miles  and  miles, 
till  it  is  lost  in  the  thicker  clouds.  In  front  ot  you 
it  towers  up  eagerly  to  giddy  heights.  Very  thickly 
built  the  city  seems,  with  black  foundations  and 
lighter,  airier  structure  above.     Here  you  can  see 


2i6  THINGS   SEEN 

a  row  of  factory  stacks ;  there  a  slim  mast.  That 
shadowy  city  is  the  British  fleet.  Not  all  of  it,  not 
nearly  all  of  it,  but  as  much  as  we  are  going  to 
show  this  time,  without  taking  away  anything  from 
any  of  our  squadrons  abroad.  The  black  founda- 
tion is  the  hulls,  the  lighter  upper  storeys  are  the 
superstructures,  the  stacks  are  funnels,  and  the  min- 
arets, masts.  Through  your  glass  you  can  make 
out  some  of  it, — a  black  venomous  destroyer  with 
a  head  like  an  adder's,  a  more  graceful-bodied 
cruiser,  a  great  battleship  riding  like  a  fortress,  with 
a  torpedo-boat  just  discernible  against  its  dark  side. 
You  can  make  out  quite  enough  to  feel  lost  and 
annihilated  in  the  presence  of  so  many  tons  of 
weight,  so  many  knots  of  motive-power,  so  many 
smithereens  of  destructive  force.  But  all  that  is 
for  to-morrow.  For  to-day  let  it  remain  the  ghostly 
city,  the  dim  promise  of  a  wonder  such  as  the  world 
never  yet  saw. 

V. 

THE  GREAT  REVIEW — (continued). 

All  through  the  week  of  Jubilee  our  English 
weather  has  maintained  its  splendid  reputation.  In 
Portsmouth  the  last  two  or  three  days  it  has  even 
exceeded  it.  Sun-striking  heat  on  Thursday ;  sullen 
haze  on  Friday ;  a  perfect  day  for  the  review ;  a 
perfect  deluge  for  coming  home  in ;  a  perfect  night 
for  the  illuminations ;  and  a  general  epilogue  of 
mug  and  fog  for  the  slack  day.  After  it,  our  colonial 


THE   JUBILEE  217 

and  foreign  friends  cannot  complain  that  our 
famous  weather  has  not  shown  all  its  phases.  On 
Friday  night  it  looked  any  odds  on  a  fog  which 
would  have  muffled  up  the  fleet  till  you  had  to 
grope  after  it  ship  by  ship.  But  on  Saturday  morn- 
ing the  mist  had  all  cleared. 

The  place  had  filled  itself  to  bursting  with  dis- 
hevelled hordes,  who  had  dozed  throughout  the 
night  in  special  trains,  and  arrived  to  find  breakfast 
in  Portsmouth  almost  as  undiscoverable  a  quantity 
as  disloyalty.  How  m.any  people  had  come  to  see 
the  great  show  I  do  not  know,  and  it  does  not  par- 
ticularly matter.  It  is  sufficient  that  if  there  had 
been  many  more  they  would  have  had  to  feed  on 
the  air  and  sit  in  the  sea.  At  any  rate,  there  was  a 
very  vast  multitude,  and  they  had  come  to  see  a 
very  vast  and  moving  spectacle.  Breakfast  or  no 
breakfast,  they  did  well  to  come.  They  were  going 
to  see  the  right  arm  of  the  British  Empire. 

It  looked  as  though  the  whole  people  of  the  coun- 
try was  emptying  itself  out  into  the  sea.  The  chan- 
nel out  of  the  harbour  was  like  the  way  to  St.  Paul's 
last  Tuesday' — a  hurrying  pilgrimage,  with  boats  in 
place  of  men  and  women.  Big  white  pulling  boats, 
and  little  twin- funnelled  steam-pinnaces  from  the 
fleet,  thick-set  government  tugs,  shining  to-day  like 
the  trimimest  of  steam-yachts,  painted  tripper  steam- 
ers, big,  towering  ocean  liners, — they  trooped  at 
each  other's  heels,  all  streaming  out  to  see  the  fleet. 
Every  boat  was  black  and  blue,  red  and  white,  with 
soldiers  and  sailors  and  plain  men  and  women.  The 


2l8  THINGS    SEEN 

plain  man  and  woman  do  not  usually  take  much 
notice  of  the  fleet  of  which  they  are  part  owners. 
But  a  week  like  this  was  just  the  time  to  take  stock 
of  it — to  see  the  m.ost  wonderful  assemblage  of  sea 
power  there  had  ever  been.  It  was  a  thing  to  be 
seen  at  all  costs,  just  for  the  sake  of  seeing.  But  it 
was  also  a  thing  with  a  good  deal  of  thinking  be- 
hind ;   the  seeing  a  lesson  as  well  as  a  spectacle. 

And  when  we  steamed  out  along  the  tortuous 
channel,  between  heavy  old  stone  forts,  break- 
waters, railway  sidings,  beaches,  and  piers  buzzing 
with  crowded  people,  there,  sure  enough,  was  the 
fleet  plain  to  view.  Not  gleaming  mysteriously 
through  a  gauze  of  mist  as  it  had  done  the  day 
before,  but  quite  plain — hard  outlines  for  the  nearer 
visions,  softer  suggestions  for  the  farther ;  but  all 
quite  unmistakably  plain  and  solid,  very  solid.  The 
fleet  was  a  very  hard  fact,  quite  motionless.  The 
big  ships  stood  up  majestically  on  the  calm,  green 
water,  and  the  little  ones  lay  along  it  meaningly. 
At  first  view  the  fleet  was  in  no  particular  order  that 
revealed  itself.  It  was  simply  a  crowd  of  ships,  a 
flower-garden  of  signal-flags,  a  scaffolding  of  masts 
and  spars,  a  factory  of  funnels,  a  long  continuous 
wall  of  black  hulls.  In  fact,  they  were  gathered  so 
thick  that  you  could  not  see  through  them  to  the 
coast  of  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Away  to  the  west  they 
stretched — away,  away,  away ;  masts  and  funnels 
and  black  hulls  running  one  into  another  for  ever 
and  ever.  Right  away  westward  ran  the  line,  faint- 
er and  fainter,  but  there  was  no  end  to  it. 


THE   JUBILEE  219 

As  our  boat  came  up  and  began  to  circle  round 
them,  the  whole  shape  of  the  fleet  suddenly 
changed.  Out  of  chaos  came  suddenly  the  precisest 
order.  For  now  we  had  come  abreast  of  the  lines, 
and  could  see  the  formation  in  which  the  ships  lay 
at  their  moorings.  First  came  torpedo-boats,  and 
the  little  devils  were  moored  so  true  that  they 
looked  like  one  vessel.  From  the  tall  liner  I  was 
on  you  looked  down  on  to  the  black  lane  of  the 
boats.  What  with  the  flags  and  the  crowd  of  men's 
heads,  it  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  street  deco- 
rated and  crowded  for  Jubilee  Day.  Then  the  de- 
stroyers are  more  devilish  than  the  boats,  their  long 
low  sides  cuddled  down  to  the  lapping  water.  Next, 
cruisers :  a  vista  of  graceful  masts  and  tall,  grace- 
ful funnels,  very  unlike  the  squat,  dogged-looking 
funnels  of  the  destroyers.  And  last,  we  came  to  the 
double  line  of  stately  battleships,  rising  out  of  the 
water  like  kings,  strong  and  confident.  Every  kind 
of  vessel,  powerful  or  swift,  according  to  her  kind. 
You  looked  down  the  dwindling  avenues  between 
their  even  lines  until  once  again  they  ran  together 
in  the  distance,  but  still  there  was  no  end  to  it. 
You  were  not  seeing  the  fleet  at  all,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  you.  You  were  only  trying  to  see  wdiat 
nobody  with  only  one  pair  of  ordinary  human  eyes 
ever  could  see.  It  would  not  come  together  into 
one  sight! — it  was  far  too  big  for  that.  But  what 
the  eye  lost  the  mind  gained.  Look  at  all  you 
could  take  in,  and  then  multiply  it  by  about  ten — 
that  was  the  fleet  lying  here  to  be  reviewed.    But 


220  THINGS    SEEN 

then  you  had  seen  any  number  of  ships  beside,  lying 
in  the  docks  and  basins — some  just  completing, 
some  a  mere  skeleton  of  girders,  some,  alas!  quite 
fit  to  go  to  sea,  but  with  no  crews  to  take  them. 
And  when  you  had  added  on  that,  it  was  time  to 
remember  that  we  have  a  fleet  in  China  waters,  a 
fleet  in  the  Pacific  and  the  Indian  Ocean,  in  the 
North  and  South  Atlantic,  and  in  Australasia.  Not 
a  ship  more  than  we  need.  But  add  up  all  that, 
and  then  you  will  begin  to  get  an  idea.  Yet  no, 
you  won't.  Still,  you  will  be  nearer  to  an  idea  of 
the  tremendous  might  of  the  machine  which  holds 
together  the  British  Empire. 

You  got  a  suggestion  on  Tuesday  how  big  the 
Empire  is  on  land.  On  Saturday  you  added  an 
inkling  how  big  it  is  on  every  sea.  We  are  great 
in  fertile  Canada  and  Australia,  in  populous  India 
and  Africa,  and  in  the  rich  islands  of  East  and 
West,  because  we  are  yet  greater  on  the  naked  sea. 

That  was  the  great  lecture  propounded  by  the 
lines  of  warships  on  Saturday. 

People  here  said  that  the  review,  as  a  show,  was 
less  than  exciting,  that  it  was  even  a  little  dull, 
that  if  there  had  been  ten  or  twenty  ships  less  or 
more  it  would  have  looked  exactly  the  same.  Pos- 
sibly. Only  the  lecture  would  not  have  been  the 
same,  as  the  point  was  the  question  of  the  fleet,  and 
the  greatness  of  the  need  for  it — at  once  a  boast  and 
a  warning.  And  yet  to  my  eyes  the  mere  sight  was 
a  monstrously  fine  one.  A  warship  is  fine  beyond 
almost  any  other  sight  there  is  to  be  seen.    Beauty 


THE    JUBILEE  221 

lies  in  expression,  they  say,  and  there  is  nothing 
more  expressive  than  a  warship.  It  has  at  once  the 
buoyant  mobility  of  life  and  the  heavy  solidity  of 
matter.  The  long  guns  run  level,  and  if  the  ports 
suggest  horrible  destructiveness  —  tons  of  steel 
tossed  about  here  and  there  and  crushing  men  un- 
der them  to  jelly, — at  the  same  time  the  brilliant 
polish  on  the  guns,  a  polish  you  could  shave  by, 
is  very  human,  and  speaks  of  affection  for  the  grim 
beauties  that  is  as  pretty  as  the  guns  are  terrible. 
And  there  was  a  kind  of  pathos,  too,  in  a  tiny  little 
launch  that  was  gliding  in  and  out  of  the  lines  with 
a  very  frothy  wave  behind  her.  That  was  the  Tur- 
binia — an  experiment  in  a  new  method  of  propul- 
sion, already  the  fastest  thing  afloat,  and  with  pos- 
sibilities of  further  speed  almost  illimitable.  If  that 
shrimp  of  a  turbinet  comes  to  anything,  all  these 
black  and  yellow  leviathans  are  done  for.  So  they 
are  if  somebody  invents  a  flying-machine;  so  they 
are  if  you  top  them  with  a  torpedo.  All  the  tops  of 
steel,  the  labour  of  years,  the  millions  of  money, 
the  masses  of  ingenuity,  and  the  treasures  of  devo- 
tion and  courage, — they  are  all  gone  in  five  minutes. 
That  is  the  pathos  and  the  beauty  of  a  warship;  it 
is  so  very  strong  and  so  very  weak. 

There  was  plenty  of  time  to  moralise  about  this 
or  anything  else  you  felt  a  leaning  to  during  the 
long  wait  between  taking  up  your  berth  and  the 
arrival  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  But  at  about  two 
o'clock  there  was  a  gim  fired :  he  was  there.  There 
was  a   bustle   in  the   ships,  and   some  blue-black 


222  THINGS   SEEN 

figures  already  lying  out  along  the  yards  sprang  up 
and  stood  motionless  till  the  ship  seemed  rigged 
with  living  men.  In  others,  the  newest  ships,  too 
sternly  new  and  businesslike  to  be  fitted  with  the 
tackle  for  such  amenities,  the  bluejackets  lined  the 
sides  and  bulwarks,  with  scarlet  marines  to  give  a 
dash  of  gaiety  to  what  was  rather  smart  and  pur- 
poseful than  gaudy.  It  was  not  nearly  so  variegated 
as  Tuesday,  despite  the  signal-flags,  but  always  bar- 
ring the  Queen, — why  was  she  not  there  ?^it  was 
not  a  whit  less  majestic,  for  as  the  Prince's  proces- 
sion reached  each  division  the  ships  saluted.  The 
banging  guns  from  all  these  ships  would  have  made 
a  very  heavy  action  on  land.  They  were  firing  from 
their  smallest  guns ;  but  even  that  probably  meant 
as  much  energy,  certainly  as  much  noise  and  smoke, 
as  a  big  army  all  through  a  day's  fighting.  In  a 
minute  half  the  fleet  had  vanished — blotted  out  by 
the  coils  of  lazy  smoke,  guns  crashing,  bands  blar- 
ing, thousands  of  lusty  seamen  cheering.  The  in- 
specting yachts  and  the  big  steamers  come  by. 
Among  the  last  was  the  huge  Campania,  dwarfing 
almost  everything,  and  steaming  very  slowly  lest 
she  might  tread  on  the  toes  of  some  of  the  little 
ones.  One  by  one  the  boats  passed  away  behind 
the  smoke. 

That  was  the  review.  Crawling  carefully  back, 
we  ran  into  the  thunder-storm.  It  came  up  blackly 
from  the  Solent  before  we  could  say  "It's  raining." 
The  decks  were  a  tumult  of  dancing  water,  lightning 
was  splitting  the  sky  with  rents  of  fire.    Thunder 


THE  JUBILEE  223 

was  cracking  like  to  deafen  the  very  guns.  The 
ships  stood  up,  tall  and  wan,  against  the  lurid  sky. 
The  firmament  seemed  to  be  bursting  asunder.  The 
ships  stood  up  to  it  unmoving  and  unflinching. 
What  is  a  storm  to  them? 

But  some  colonial  officers  aboard  us  admitted 
that  they  would  hardly  have  beUeved  it  of  a  tem- 
perate climate,  and  we  natives  were  very  proud  to 
have  been  able  to  show  it  to  them.  For  the  most 
part  the  colonials  were  too  dazed  with  wonder  and 
joy  at  the  aspect  of  the  fleet  to  take  much  notice  of 
any  thunder-storm.  They  could  hardly  speak  about 
it,  and  when  they  did,  it  was  in  half-tones,  solemnly  : 
"It  has  been  a  wonderful  day  to  us — a  wonderful 
day." 

The  thunder-storm  was  only  an  episode.  Having 
done  its  business,  it  went  dutifully  away,  and  left 
the  field  clear  for  the  illuminations.  Out  on  the 
sea  front  you  could  see  the  lights  of  the  fleet  like 
glowworms  in  the  dark.  Then  suddenly  there 
sounded  a  gun;  and  as  I  moved  along  Southsea 
Common  there  appeared  in  the  line  a  ship  of  fire. 
A  ship  all  made  of  fire — hull  and  funnels  and  mili- 
tary masts  with  fighting  tops.  And  then  another, 
and  another,  and  another.  The  fleet  revealed  itself 
from  behind  the  castle,  ship  after  ship  traced  in  fire 
against  the  blackness.  From  the  head  of  Southsea 
there  still  came  on  fresh  wonders  of  grace  and 
light  and  splendour,  stretching  away,  still  endlessly 
as  in  the  daytime,  till  they  became  a  confused  glim- 
mer six  miles  away.     It  was  the  fleet,  and  yet  not 


224  THINGS   SEEN 

the  fleet.  You  could  recognise  almost  any  ship  by 
her  lines  and  rigi — just  as  if  it  had  been  in  day,  only 
transmuted  from  steel  and  paint  into  living  gold. 
The  admirals  still  flew  their  flags  as  in  the  day,  only 
to-night  the  flags  were  no  longer  bunting,  but  pure 
colour.  The  hard  heavy  fleet  vanished,  and  there 
came  out  in  its  stead  a  picture  of  it  magically  paint- 
ed in  pure  light. 

For  three  hours  the  miracle  of  brightness  shone 
wondrously  at  Spithead.  At  half-past  eleven  or  so 
the  Prince  returned  the  second  time  as  before,  and 
the  golden  fleet  sent  a  thunder  of  salute  after  him. 
Then,  as  I  stood  on  the  high  roof  of  the  Central 
Hotel,  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  before  my  eyes 
the  golden  fleet  vanished — vanished  clean  away  in 
a  moment.  You  could  just  see  it  go.  Here  half 
a  ship  broken  off,  there  masts  and  funnels  hanging 
an  instant  in  the  air.  It  all  vanished,  and  nothing 
at  all  was  left  except  the  rigging  lights,  trembling 
faintly  once  more  on  the  dark  sea. 

Was  it  a  dream?  Was  the  fleet  melted  indeed 
into  the  air?  We  had  seen  the  fleet  that  day,  and 
we  knew  better.  The  great  day  was  passed,  but 
we  knew  the  fleet  was  there.  We  took  that  away 
with  us  to  remember:   tlie  fleet  was  there. 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER.i 
I. 

As  we  crawled  nearer  to  Bayreuth  on  the  dusty 
Sunday  afternoon,  we  seemed  to  be  entering  upon 
an  outlying  province  of  the  United  States  of  Ameri- 
ca. To  be  sure  there  were  Germans  enough — high- 
busted,  bare-elbowed  German  girls  and  German 
young  men  in  light-coloured  reach-me-downs  and 
straw  hats  with  a  binding  of  black  ribbon  round  the 
tilted  brim.  But  these  all  dropped  ofif  as  the  train 
dawdled  at  each  wayside  station :  they  were  only 
going  to  the  usual  diversions  of  a  country  Sunday 
afternoon.  The  Americans  were  going  to  Bay- 
reuth, and  the  German  language  began  to  die  away 
in  the  American. 

All  down  the  long  train  there  buzzed  the  Ameri- 
can tongue ;  out  of  each  window  looked  a  group  of 
American  girls.  Four  girls  and  a  woman  to  one 
elderly  weary-looking  man  was  the  proportion,  as 
always ;  and  the  man,  as  always,  was  working  away 
at  baggage,  and  porters,  and  guards,  and  refresh- 
ments for  the  comfort  of  the  girls.  All  were  taking 
their  pleasure  as  their  manner  is  on  Sundays  and 
holidays — talking,  talking,  talking,  in  a  perpetual 
gush  of  chatter  about  things  that  did  not  matter. 

'  Daily  Mail,  July  1897. 
225 


226  THINGS   SEEN 

But  it  was  much  that  they  were  not  talking  about 
Wagner. 

Bavaria  was  going  to  sleep  under  the  heavy  sun. 
But  when  at  last  the  train  strolled  into  Bayreuth, 
Bavaria  was  awake  indeed.  It  was  a  queer  mixture. 
The  little  old  town  is  like  any  other  little  old  town 
in  this  part  of  the  world — old  brown  houses  that 
seem  nearly  all  old  brown  tiles,  the  deep-eaved 
roof  sloping  heavenwards  to  double  the  height  of 
the  windows.  They  look  like  toys  which  have  been 
shut  up  unplayed  with  for  a  century.  But  the  big, 
cobble-stoned,  triangular  square  outside  the  sta- 
tion was  quite  full.  The  station  hotel  had  flags  of 
all  nations  flying.  Crowds  lined  the  station  steps, 
and  packed  right  back  as  if  a  royal  procession  were 
coming.  Partly  they  were  peasants,  who  don't  quite 
know  who  Wagner  is,  looking  on  the  tourists,  who 
surged  out  in  a  maddening  torrent,  with  amusement 
and  some  contempt. 

The  Bavarian  peasant  is  like  any  other  peasant, 
only  more  so.  The  rough  brown  suit  that  covers  his 
big  limbs  is  not  browner  than  his  face ;  only  the 
square  set  of  his  shoulders  reminds  you  of  those 
three  years  in  the  army,  and  his  heavy  movements 
and  big  wide-awake  can  never  loosen  him  quite  into 
the  mere  boor  again.  But  if  the  peasant  smiled  to 
see  these  crowds  of  strangers  fighting  their  way 
into  Bayreuth  from  heaven  knows  where,  the  true 
Bayreuther  did  not.  He  knew  what  they  were  all 
there  for — they  had  come  to  make  his  fortune. 

I  fancied  last  night  that  Bayreuth  didn't  care. 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  227 

They  were  promenading  the  town  just  as  on  every 
other  Sunday  night,  whipping  off  their  hats  to  each 
other,  and  tucking  them  for  a  moment  under  their 
elbow,  just  as  every  other  German.  There  were 
accordions  playing  in  the  little  outlying  beer- 
houses, and  bare-headed  girls  waltzing  together. 
I  had  seen  two  Englishmen  in  my  hotel,  hideous  in 
shapeless  dust-cloaks,  but  very  reverentially  eating 
the  rosbif  of  the  holy  city.  After  that  it  seemed 
horrible  that  the  accordions  were  not  playing  at 
least  the  overture  to  "Tannhauser,"  and  I  marvelled 
that  Bayreuth  should  be  so  insensible. 

But  I  was  wrong.  Certainly  Wagner  came  to 
Bayreuth,  and  not  Bayreuth  to  Wagner,  so  that 
Bayreuth  had  a  right  to  remain  unresponsive  if  it 
liked.  But  it  did  not.  It  briskly  grasped  what  may 
be  called  the  mark-and-pfennig  aspect  of  the  Meis- 
ter's  genius.  When  I  took  up  my  room  at  the  hotel 
the  waiter  called  my  attention  to  the  price,  marked 
in  plain  figures  on  the  door.  "To  avoid  misunder- 
standings later,"  he  sweetly  remarked,  and  perhaps 
the  precaution  is  a  wise  one.  My  hotel  is  a  good 
little  inn  enough,  though  nobody  could  call  it  first- 
class.  But  the  proprietor  has  incautiously  left  about 
a  little  memorandum  with  the  price  of  each  room 
marked  thereon.  If  they  are  all  full,  as  they  are,  it 
comes  to  something  over  £9  a-day,  and  nearly 
£300  for  the  month's  season — not  half  bad  for  a 
little  country  inn,  not  counting  profits  on  meat  and 
drink,  and  considering  the  value  of  money  in  Ger- 
many,   And  all  Bayreuth  does  the  same. 


228  THINGS   SEEN 

A  barber  who  shaved  me  had  quickly  put  his 
price  up  to  3fd.,  a  great  sum  in  this  country;  but 
then  he  had  assisted  at  the  final  rehearsal  of  "Par- 
sifal," had  even  helped  make  up  the  artists,  and  the 
extra  i|d.  was  not  more  than  his  conversation  was 
worth.  Of  course  there  is  no  shop  without  its  bust 
of  Wagner  in  the  window,  from  terra-cotta  an  inch 
high  to  colossal  plaster  of  Paris,  and  the  last  looks 
very  engaging  against  a  background  of  little  tin 
uhlans.  Moreover,  Bayreuth  does  not  wait  for  you 
to  come  and  buy ;  it  comes  round  to  you  with 
motherly  care,  and  insists  that  you  should  equip 
yourself  thoroughly  against  the  festival.  "Have  you 
got  your  book  of  leitmotives  ?"  said  an  old  lady  to 
me,  quite  sharply,  this  morning.  I  dared  not  say 
that  leitmotives  were  of  no  use  to  me,  for  fear  I 
should  be  slapped,  or  not  allowed  to  go  to  the  per- 
formance ;  so  I  weakly  said  I  had.  After  all,  to 
sell  such  things  is  what  the  shop  is  for.  But  I  never, 
never  thought  I  should  live  to  see  the  orchestral 
score  of  "Parsifal"  hawked  about  the  streets  like  an 
evening  newspaper. 

While  I  have  been  writing  this  little  bit  more 
special  trains  from  everywhere  have  been  coming 
in,  and  have  flooded  the  place  with  English  girls. 
It  is  curious  that  Wagner  seems  to  appeal  with 
special  potency  to  the  unmarried  girl,  and  I  don't 
know  whether  he  would  be  altogether  pleased  if  he 
knew  it.  At  this  moment  the  marriageable  female 
population  of  Bayreuth  appears  to  be  something 
like  eighty  per  cent  or  so  of  the  whole.    When  I 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  229 

went  down  to  lunch  I  found  the  restaurant  quite 
full  of  English  girls — girls  in  shirts  and  white  belts 
and  blue  serge  skirts.  They  order  their  lunch  very 
distinctly  in  English,  and  are  rather  annoyed  when 
the  stupid  fellow  doesn't  understand  them.  But, 
luckily,  our  hotel  has  two  English-speaking  waiters. 
The  senior  one,  I  fancy,  is  responsible  for  the  in- 
scription, "Here  are  carriages  cheap,  to  let,"  which 
appears  in  all  the  rooms  of  the  hotel.  To-day  both 
are  in  great  form ;  they  even  swagger  a  little,  and 
talk  to  each  other  in  English.  "More  little  spoons," 
cries  one.  "No  little  spoons  left,  only  small 
spoons,"  answers  his  fellow.  There  are  no  marks 
to-day — only  shillings.  The  poor  native  German 
is  quite  wiped  out.  The  German  is  not,  as  a  rule, 
the  most  retiring  of  men ;  but  to-day  he  sits  discon- 
solately waiting  to  be  served.  It  is  even  pathetic 
to  see  him  furtively  feel  at  the  horn  of  his  waxed 
moustache,  fearing  that  it  may  have  gone  out  of 
curl,  and  that  this  is  responsible  for  the  unwonted 
neglect  of  his  wishes.  Meanwhile  the  English  study 
maps  of  Bayreuth,  and  wonder  intelligently  that 
there  are  so  many  Roman  Catholic  churches — as  if 
they  expected  to  find  the  Wesleyan  connection 
especially  strong  in  Bavaria. 

In  the  aspect  of  most  of  these  ladies  there  is 
something  that  rebukes  me.  There  is  a  look  of 
high  purpose  in  their  eye  as  they  order  lunch,  which 
tells  me  that  I  am  wrong  to  take  my  food  as  food  ;  to- 
day it  is  the  sustenance  in  the  strength  of  which  one 
hears  "Parsifal."    They  look  very  coldly  on  the  bar- 


230  THINGS   SEEN 

maid  of  the  restaurant,  who  wears  her  sleeves  short 
at  the  elbows,  and  a  little  short  at  the  neck — surely 
a  very  innocent  device,  and  eminently  calculated  to 
lessen  the  heat  of  the  weather  and  increase  the  sale 
of  beer.  But  one  should  not  consider  these  vanities 
to-day.  To-day  one  may,  indeed,  drink  Rhine  wine  ; 
but,  again,  as  a  sort  of  sacrament,  as  if  it  came  out 
of  the  Grail.  Though  there  is,  indeed,  one  jolly  red- 
faced  dame  in  a  Jubilee  ribbon,  who  seems  to  feel 
that  a  country  where  you  can  get  a  pint  of  wine 
for  a  shilling  is  one  that  she  has  neglected  too  long. 
What  is  she  doing  in  Bayrcuth,  I  wonder?  For 
that  matter,  what  of  the  earnest-eyed  young  lady 
who  is  explaining  "Parsifal"  to  her  friend  ?  "There's 
not  very  much  tune  in  it,"  she  says,  "but  at  the 
end  there's  the  Good  Friday  music — very  pretty." 
I  can't  leave  off  thinking  what  Wagner — who  was 
not  the  most  tolerant  of  men  towards  mediocrity 
— what  poor  Wagner  would  think  to-day  if  he  could 
be  present  at  his  apotheosis. 

But  now  the  carriages  are  filling  up,  and  rolling 
off  towards  the  theatre.  We  must  go.  Have  you 
got  your  tickets,  your  opera-glasses,  your  German 
and  English  texts,  your  orchestral  score,  your  map 
of  Bayreuth,  your  life  of  Wagner,  your  commentary, 
and  your  chart  of  leitmotives  ?  Now !  Hush :  Let 
us  go. 

n. 

It  was  beginning.  The  huge  wedge-shaped  thea- 
tre was  black  as  night.  Fifteen  hundred  people 
hardly  breathed.    Yet,  though  you  saw  nothing  and 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  23I 

heard  nothing,  you  could  feel  the  air  charged  with 
expectancy.  Up  over  the  living  darkness  stole  the 
first  soul-thrilling  bars  of  the  prelude  to  "Parsifal." 

Nevertheless  it  had  taken  a  good  hour  to  get  the 
multitude  settled  down  into  its  proper  disposition 
of  rapt  attention.  It  had  begun  to  take  its  way  to 
that  theatre  —  the  Feast-play-house  is  the  right 
name  for  it  in  Bayreuth — by  half-past  two — an  hour 
and  a  half  before  the  first  note  was  due.  Between 
the  regular  lines  of  trees  rolled  two  streams  of  car- 
riages, some  hastening  to  set  down,  the  others  to 
find  somebody  to  take  up  again.  Under  the  trees 
stood  the  inhabitants  of  Bayreuth  watching  the 
stream  go  by ;  there  jostled  them  a  long  column 
of  foot-passengers,  moving  perpetually  at  a  steady 
two  miles  an  hour  up  the  gentle  rise  towards  the 
theatre.  There  were  English,  Americans,  French, 
and  Germans,  Gentiles  and  Jews,  soldiers  and  civ- 
ilians— it  was  strange  to  see  cavalry  lieutenants  in 
uniform,  the  full  score  under  their  arms,  going  to 
hear  an  opera  at  three  in  the  afternoon — old  men 
and  little  girls,  shaggy-haired  virtuosi,  and  untu- 
tored children  of  nature  from  the  western  prairies. 

You  may  smile  at  Wagner  as  you  will ;  yet,  gen- 
ius or  charlatan,  it  was  no  ordinary  personality  that 
could  draw  together  this  motley  crowd  in  his  hon- 
our. Bear  in  mind  that  you  cannot  pay  less  than 
£5  for  your  tickets  alone,  to  say  nothing  of  com- 
ing to  Bayreuth  and  staying  there.  Many  of  these 
people  may  have  had  the  vaguest  idea  of  the  differ- 
ence between  a  leitmotiv  and  a  Biihnenweihfest- 


232  THINGS    SEEN 

spiel,  may  hardly  have  known  who  Wagner  was. 
But  the  fact  remains  that  Wagner  somehow  im- 
pressed himself  enough  on  the  world  to  make  peo- 
ple think  it  worth  spending  £5  per  head  and  up- 
wards to  hear  and  see  his  works  in  the  way  he 
thought  they  should  be  heard  and  seen. 

We  came  to  the  red-brick  theatre— the  most 
hideous  I  ever  saw.  It  is  the  naked  skeleton  of  a 
theatre,  with  all  its  anatomy — vestibule,  auditorium, 
flies,  dressing-rooms  —  sticking  out  unashamed, 
with  no  attempt  to  hide  or  beautify  them.  It  is  not 
built  for  show.  Except  at  festival-time  there  is 
nobody  to  look  at  it,  and  at  festival-time  everybody 
is  naturally  looking  at  everybody  else.  And  as- 
suredly everybody  else  was  well  worth  looking  at. 
I  suppose  it  must  be  rather  a  perplexing  problem 
how  one  is  to  dress  for  a  theatrical  performance  in 
the  country  which  begins  at  four  and  ends  at  ten. 
Wonderful  indeed  were  the  solutions  of  it.  The 
women,  for  once,  were  less  wonderful  than  the 
men.  The  women  merely  wore  evening-dress,  or 
dinner-dress,  with  a  bonnet,  or  garden-party  dress, 
or  travelling  dress,  or  shirts  and  bicycle  skirts,  ac- 
cording as  they  regarded  it  as  town  or  country, 
morning  or  evening.  The  English  and  American 
men  wore  the  tweeds  and  serges,  straw  or  felt  hats, 
and  yellow  boots,  which  they  consider  good  enough 
for  any  occasion  abroad.  < 

But  the  German  men !  There  was  just  one  gen- 
tleman in  correct  frock-coat,  light  trousers,  and 
tall  hat.    Another  came  very  near  him,  but  had  ap- 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  233 

parently  mistaken  the  feast-play  for  a  funeral — he 
was  in  deepest  mourning-.  Several  wore  evening- 
dress,  with  black  ties ;  one  had  invented  a  kind  of 
combination  dress-and-frock  coat — frock  buttoned, 
dress  unbuttoned' — which,  but  for  its  general  gro- 
tesqueness,  was  plainly  the  very  thing  for  the  oc- 
casion. But  these  were  hide-bound  conventional- 
ists beside  the  play  of  fancy  which  others  showed. 

Among  the  dresses,  as  they  say  in  the  Society 
column,  we  noticed  the  following:  Correct  morn- 
ing-dress, with  a  straw  hat;  correct  evening-dress, 
with  shepherd's  plaid  trousers  and  brown  boots ; 
frock-coat  and  cricket  cap ;  black  morning-coat, 
Leghorn  straw  hat  and  knickerbockers ;  frock- 
coat,  white  waistcoat,  and  a  kind  of  gilt  deer-stalk- 
er ;  frock-coat,  sombrero,  grey  hair  down  back,  and 
bit  of  sausage  sticking  out  of  mouth ;  frock-coat, 
straw  hat,  duck  trousers,  no  waistcoat,  tartan  tie, 
another  kind  of  tartan  shirt,  and  a  third  kind  of 
tartan  cricket-belt ;  brown  knickerbockers,  grey 
flannel  shirt,  patent-leather  shoes,  no  coat,  no  waist- 
coat, no  hat. 

You  will  imagine  that  time  passed  quickly  and 
enjoyably  in  the  contemplation  of  this  scene.  Be- 
fore I  had  absorbed  the  half  of  it  there  stepped  to 
the  threshold  of  the  theatre  half-a-dozen  men  with 
brass  instruments.  A  little  man  in  a  frock-coat  and 
a  bowler  ranged  himself  in  front  of  them.  Suddenly 
he  began  to  wave  his  arms  round  his  head,  and  to 
this  conducting  they  blew  the  first  few  notes  of 
"Parsifal."    That  meant  it  w^as  to  begfin  in  five  min- 


234  THINGS   SEEN 

utes — it  is  the  regular  signal  at  Bayreuth.  We  tum- 
bled up  the  bare  mountainous  stairs  into  the  bare 
undecorated  theatre.  It  was  not  more  beautiful 
inside  than  out.  It  is  a  vast  sloping  wedge,  of 
which  the  stage  is  the  thin  end ;  the  thick  end  is  a 
row  of  boxes  for  royal  persons  and  suchlike ;  be- 
tween are  the  stalls.  There  is  nothing  else  but 
stalls — tier  on  tier  of  cane-bottomed  seats,  rising 
gradually  from  the  stage.  Each  seat  costs  £  i,  and 
in  theory  each  is  as  good  as  each  of  the  others.  In 
practice  the  back  side  seats — need  I  say  mine  was 
a  back  side  seat? — are  not  quite  as  good  for  seeing 
as  the  front  middle  seats. 

On  the  other  hand,  they  are  probably  better  for 
hearing:  an  enormous  orchestra  does  not  combine 
properly  unless  you  are  some  distance  from  it ;  al- 
though at  Bayreuth,  by  a  most  admirable  arrange- 
ment, the  orchestra  is  tucked  away  under  the  stage, 
and  you  cannot  see  it.  Take  it  altogether,  this  is 
the  most  practical  opera-house  in  the  world.  It 
would  never  do  in  London — it  is  not  very  comfort- 
able, and  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  seeing  w4io  is 
in  the  house  are  almost  insuperable.  But  m  Ger- 
many, where  people  go  to  the  opera  to  see  and  hear 
operas,  it  is  exactly  what  you  want.  Stern,  bare, 
utilitarian,  just  simply  a  place  to  see  and  hear  from. 
It  is  exactly  what  you  want. 

The  lights  went  out ;  the  rustle  of  people  went 
out  as  suddenly;  the  prelude  began.  The  prelude 
ended,  and  the  first  act  began.  From  the  audience 
there  was  not  a  single  sound.    The  youngest  Ameri- 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  235 

can  girls  tried  a  whisper  or  two  at  first,  but  even 
they  were  awed  into  silence.  There  was  more  than 
one  point  where  I  should  like  to  have  laughed ;  but 
amid  this  strained  attentive  rapture  no  laugh  came. 
The  first  act  lasted  an  hour  and  three-quarters  ;  no- 
body stirred  or  made  a  sound.  There  was  an  inter- 
val of  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  and  then  the  second 
act  lasted  an  hour  and  a  quarter ;  nobody  stirred  or 
miade  a  sound.  Then  another  interval  of  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  and  a  third  act  of  an  hour  and 
a  half.  Perhaps  twenty  people — mostly  Americans 
— had  gone  home ;  still  nobody  made  a  sound. 
Four  hours  and  a  half  of  solid  music,  without  a 
tune  to  hum  in  the  whole  of  it ;  1500  people,  a  good 
third  of  them  from  the  two  least-to-be-awed  peoples 
on  earth,  and  not  a  voice,  or  a  cough,  or  a  banging 
seat  from  the  lot  of  them! 

What  do  you  make  of  this, anti-Wagnerian?  With 
Germans  you  can  understand  it :  they  are  trained 
to  sit  at  attention ;  one  German  fainted  with  devo- 
tion, which  was  the  only  distraction  of  the  day.  But 
English  and  American  men  and  women  don't  sit 
four  hours  and  a  half  motionless  on  cane-bottomed 
seats  for  the  sheer  enjoyment  of  being  cramped 
and  uncomfortable.  Then  why  do  they  it?  True, 
they  have  got  to  do  it,  once  they  are  inside  the 
place ;  but  why  do  they  come  ?  Partly,  perhaps,  it 
is  because  of  the  delicious  holiday  setting  of  the 
piece.  You  go  out  of  the  dark,  reverence-stricken, 
human-smelling  playhouse  after  the  first  act  to  sit 
in  the  sun  and  look  away  over  the  broad  Bavarian 


236  THINGS    SEEN 

valleys,  with  fir-grown  ridges  between;  after  the 
second  act  to  eat  your  dinner,  as  the  evening  cool 
exudes  freshly  out  of  the  half-dried  woods  and 
corn-fields ;  at  the  end  to  walk  home  in  the  mys- 
terious night. 

But  that  cannot  be  the  whole  reason  of  it.  It 
M'ould  be  too  wild  to  suppose  that  these  people  take 
Wagner  as  a  kind  of  bitter  pill  to  put  an  edge  on  the 
sweetness  of  Nature.  Fashion  may  have  something 
to  do  with  it,  but  most  of  these  people  were  any- 
thing but  fashionable.  They  did  not  look  as  if  the 
£io-note  it  cost  them  to  come  had  many  fellows 
in  their  pocket-books.  And  do  you  think  they 
would  come  thus  to  a  Mozart  festival,  a  Gounod 
festival,  even  to  a  composer  of  the  "Washington 
Post"  festival? 

Then  there  must  be  something  in  Wagner  after 
all — something  that  makes  its  appeal  to  the  plain 
man  as  well  as  to  the  musician.  But  you  don't  want 
to  hear  my  views  on  Wagner. 


III. 

It  finished  last  night ;  and  the  time  has  come  for 
buying  mementoes  of  Wagner.  This  part  of  the 
business  especially  concerns  the  Germans.  You 
would  imagine,  indeed,  that  anybody  who  had  put 
through  the  week  at  Bayreuth  would  never  need  to 
be  reminded  of  Wagner  again  as  long  as  he  lived. 
But  that  is  not  the  German  view.  The  German 
never  quite  believes  that  he  has  been  to  a  place  un- 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  237 

less  he  brings  away  some  childish  toy  with  the 
place's  name  written  on  it.  His  family  does  not 
believe  he  has  been  there  unless  he  brings  home 
similar  toys  for  them  ;  a  "Mitbring" — "with-bring" 
— is  the  magnificently  simple  name  for  such.  You 
feel  somehow  that  there  is  no  getting  away  from 
plain  hard  duty  in  a  language  that  uses  such  direct 
terms  as  this. 

So  the  shops  are  crowded  this  morning.  The  be- 
wildered shopkeepers — hardly  awakened  even  yet 
to  the  fact  that  there  is  once  more  something  doing 
in  Bayreuth  —  are  helplessly  protesting  in  their 
liquid  Bavarian  dialect  that  they  haven't  got  any- 
thing that  anybody  could  possibly  want  to  buy,  and 
are  then  being  conducted  outside  in  solemn  pro- 
cession to  be  convinced  by  the  presence  of  the  arti- 
cle where  they  put  it  in  the  window  a  week  ago. 
You  can  buy  many  kinds  of  articles  in  Bayreuth, 
but  they  all  bear  on  Wagner.  It  looks  best,  think 
some,  to  buy  an  orchestral  score ;  though,  to  be 
sure,  you  can  get  that  just  as  well  anywhere  else, 
and,  for  my  part,  I  prefer  to  pretend  that  I've  got 
it  already.  Many  buy  photographs  of  the  artists — 
those  solid  German  artists — or  of  the  stage-scenery, 
or  of  the  outside  of  the  theatre,  or  of  Bayreuth  in 
general,  or  else  imaginative  pictures  of  Rhine  maid- 
ens as  they  would  be  if  the  law  did  not  compel  them 
to  appear  in  clothes. 

But  all  these  are  a  little  commonplace.  How 
much  better  to  get  a  meerschaum  cigar-holder 
carved  into  a  head  of  Wagner — the  place  where 


238  THINGS   SEEN 

the  cigar  comes  giving  him  the  appearance  of  wear- 
ing a  tall  hat  such  as  niggers  sport  on  the  sands. 
Or  how  would  you  like  a  two-shilling  model  of  the 
Holy  Grail?  Or  a  one-and-sixpenny  bust  of  Wag- 
ner with  a  red  face  and  black  and  white  clothes? 
Or  a  Wagner  cigarette-case,  or  a  Wagner  pocket- 
book,  or  a  Wagner  purse  ?  There  are  little  phrases 
out  of  "Parsifal"  neatly  scored  on  each.  Or,  better 
still,  why  not  a  "Nibelungen-Ring"  set  of  liqueur 
glasses,  with  a  leitmotiv  from  each  of  the  four 
dramas  neatly  done  in  gold  round  the  glass  ? 

Yes ;  it  has  come  to  an  end,  and  what  has  it 
amounted  to?  We  have  had  a  masterly  perform- 
ance each  day — so  the  local  newspapers  assure  us, 
and  they  have  had  experience.  For  myself,  I  have 
enjoyed  it  prodigiously.  I  have  always  considered 
Wagner  the  musician  of  all  others  for  the  plain 
man.  He  appears  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  coun- 
terpoint and  such  complications.  He  appears  to  me 
to  have  composed  his  music  on  the  basis  of  a  scale 
of  his  own,  floating  about  somehow  in  his  head — 
a  scale  with  intervals  quite  dififerent  from  those  of 
the  ordinary  scale ;  the  melodies  seem  to  go  along 
and  close  quite  on  different  principles  from  anybody 
else's,  and  yet  one  note  seems  to  follow  another  as 
inevitably  as  those  of  Mozart  himself.  Perhaps  I 
am  talking  nonsense.  But  I  am  quite  free  to  admit 
for  myself  that  Wagner's  music  makes  me  laugh 
and  cry,  and  sends  shivers  down  my  back,  and  turns 
me  hot  and  cold,  and  ready  to  jump  up  and  scream 
with  excitement.    And  then  another  point  in  which 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  239 

Wagner  appears  made  for  the  man  without  musical 
cultivation  is  that  he  always  keeps  his  music  hand 
in  hand  with  the  drama,  so  that  the  interest  of  one 
helps  out  the  other.  "The  Ring  of  the  Nibelung" 
is  surely  a  most  noble  work.  With  all  its  grotesque- 
ness,  it  is  so  large — it  took  years  and  years  to  com- 
pose, and  if  you  began  playing  it  through  after 
an  early  breakfast  you  would  hardly  get  it  done  by 
bed-time ;  yet  it  is  all  in  one  piece — it  is  so  lofty, 
so  much  on  the  grand  scale,  even  where  it  fails,  so 
thrillingly  romantic,  so  poignantly  tragic — I  defy 
any  simple-minded  person  to  hear  its  four  parts 
through  on  successive  days  and  not  be  sorry  at  the 
end  that  it  was  over. 

Moreover,  when  the  music  is  dull — and  much  of 
it  appears  to  me  mere  endless  repetition  of  mean- 
ingless phrases — and  when  the  action  is  dull — cer- 
tainly some  of  the  gods  and  goddesses  are  a  little 
prolix — why,  there  still  remains  the  scenery.  Wag- 
ner, worthy  soul,  was  happily  lacking  in  a  sense  of 
humour ;  his  idea  of  fun  was  to  bring  on  a  hunch- 
back to  be  kicked.  He  was  a  very  literal-minded 
man.  Everything  that  happened  in  his  operas  had 
to  happen  on  the  stage,  so  that  the  people  could  see 
it ;  and  Wagner  wrote  down  careful  directions  to 
that  effect  in  the  score.  Consequently  you  get  in 
Wagner  the  most  colossal  and  difficult  stage-effects 
imaginable,  and  it  is  always  a  joy  to  sit  and  watch 
how  they  will  be  tackled.  Three  mermaids  swim- 
ming about  in  the  Rhine  is  not  the  easiest  thing  to 
put  on  the  stage  without  being  ridiculous;  nor  yet 


240  THINGS   SEEN 

are  gods  walking  over  a  rainbow  into  Valhalla ;  nor 
yet  an  ex-goddess  on  horseback  galloping  into  a 
blazing  funeral  pyre.  They  must  all  be  tackled  if 
you  are  to  give  Wagner  as  he  wanted  himself  given 
— though  the  two  last  are  more  or  less  funked  at 
Bayreuth.  Then,  on  one  occasion,  Parsifal  waves  a 
spear — for  Wagnerian  characters  never  venture  out 
without  a  spear^ — and  a  whole  magic  castle  comes 
down  about  his  ears ;  in  the  "Ring"  there  is  a  ver}' 
similar  scene  with  the  added  complication  that  the 
castle  is  on  fire.  Than  this  last  I  never  saw  any 
stage-efifect  more  wonderful :  it  was  so  realistic  that 
you  shuddered  as  the  blazing  roof  crashed  down 
within  a  foot  of  the  chorus's  heads,  and  marvelled 
that  it  did  not  set  the  whole  theatre  ablaze. 

How  can  Wagner  be  dull  with  things  constantly 
going  on  like  that  ?  And  when  the  music  palls  and 
the  drama  stands  still  and  the  scenery  is  doing 
nothing  —  why,  you  can  always  amuse  yourself 
watching  the  animals.  For  whenever  an  animal 
appeared  to  Wagner  germane  to  his  story,  that  also 
had  to  be  brought  on  to  the  stage.  In  "The  Ring 
of  the  Nibelung"  there  are  thus  introduced  a 
dragon,  a  snake,  a  live  bear,  a  dead  ditto,  a  goat 
(with  charge),  a  horse,  a  couple  of  ravens,  and  a 
bird  of  unspecified  breed  described  as  a  wood  bird. 
Each  of  these  afifords  perpetual  entertainment  while 
it  is  on  the  stage.  The  Bayreuth  dragon,  for  ex- 
ample— the  only  one  of  the  beasts  that  has  a  singing 
part — is  a  triumph.  It  is  as  thick  as  three  fat  men, 
and  larger  than  a  tramcar,  yet  it  moves  all  over  in 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  241 

the  most  convincing-  way.  It  has  a  snut  nose,  a 
sloping  forehead,  and  four  huge  canine  teeth,  and 
fire  comes  out  of  its  mouth ;  in  face  it  is  wonder- 
fully like  a  bull-dog  smoking  a  cigar.  The  wood 
bird,  again,  is  very  engaging,  instead  of  flying  it 
runs  along  a  wire,  sometimes  sticking  for  a  mo- 
ment, exactly  like  a  spider. 

But  Briinnhilde's  horse  is  the  masterpiece — in 
fact,  it  is  my  favourite  character  in  ail  Wagner.  It 
is  real,  whereas  all  the  others  are  imitations.  And 
what  a  noble  animal !  He  comes  on  first  while  the 
goat  is  performing,  and  what  heroic  self-command 
he  must  exert  not  to  shy  at  it !  When  Siegfried 
parts  from  Briinnhilde  he  has  to  poke  his  head  on 
from  the  wings,  having  apparently  been  hobbled 
for  the  night  in  Briinnhilde's  bedroom :  how  osten- 
tatiously and  jaw-breakingly  he  yawned  through 
that  great  love  duet !  No  opera  could  be  dull  while 
that  horse  was  on  the  stage :  you  are  always  won- 
dering whether  he  won't  do  something  not  in  his 
part — neigh,  or  kick  Siegfried,  or  jump  over  the 
footlights  on  to  Herr  Richter,  or  something  equally 
indecorous.  He  never  does  ;  but  there  is  always  the 
excitement  of  anticipation. 

On  the  whole,  then,  we  might  pronounce  Bay- 
reuth  most  enjoyable.  But  there  is  one  blot  on 
it  that  spoils  all,  and  that — I  grieve  to  write  it — is 
my  superior,  intellectual,  cultured  countrymen.  The 
German  I  do  not  object  to ;  he  goes  to  Bayreuth 
because  Wagner  told  him  to ;  when  he  comes  out 
of  the  theatre  he  says,  "Wunderschon,"  and  there  is 


242  THINGS   SEEN 

an  end  of  it ;  he  then  drinks  beer  and  talks  of  some- 
thing else.  But  the  English  girl — she  is  generally 
unmarried,  and  runs  from  twenty-five  to  thirty-five 
— with  her  accurate  knowledge,  and  her  impassive 
ways,  and  her  prim  pale  face,  and  that  thin,  slow, 
unmodulated,  very-high-in-the-head  voice!  You 
know  the  voice ;  it  is  not  a  chest  voice,  nor  even 
a  head  voice ;  it  is  a  kind  of  brain  voice,  an  excellent 
voice  to  sneer  in.  And  how  she  sneers !  She  goes 
to  the  theatre  and  comes  out  and  says,  "I  wonder 
why  Vogl  can't  attack  his  notes  cleanly,"  and  "Such 
a  pity  they  made  such  a  muddle  of  the  'Feuerzau- 
ber.'  "  When  she  recognises  a  motiv  she  labels  it 
with  its  name  in  an  audible  whisper.  She  knows 
all  the  scenes  by  their  Christian  names,  so  to  speak, 
and  talks  of  "the  Ritt"  as  if  she  went  out  shopping 
to  it.  She  never  laughs — only  gives  a  sort  of  cough 
half  disdain,  half  pity.  I  had  met  some  like  this, 
but  I  did  not  know  there  were  so  many  in  the  world 
as  I  saw  last  week  in  Bayreuth. 

I  don't  like  her  at  all,  and  I  wonder  why  she 
comes.  She  doesn't  look  as  if  she  enjoyed  it,  but 
perhaps  she  does,  in  a  way,  after  all.  It  is  a  place 
where  she  can  bask  in  her  own  culture.  The  truth 
is  that,  except  to  her,  Bayreuth  is  not  a  place  of 
pilgrimage  at  all,  but  only  a  place  of  rational  enjoy- 
ment after  a  person's  own  fashion.  The  German 
goes  there  as  he  goes  to  church — it  is  his  duty.  The 
Frenchman  goes  to  make  epigrams,  to  twist  his 
fingers,  and  say,  "Comme  qs.."  The  American  takes 
it  in  with  his  Job-shaming  patience  as  an  institu- 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  WAGNER  243 

tion  of  Europe.  The  Englishman  mostly  goes  to 
take  the  English  girl.  To  the  cultured  English  girl 
alone  is  Bayreuth  a  high  and  holy  sanctuary, — it  is 
the  mirror  of  her  own  superiority. 


IN   SEARCH  OF  A   FAMINE.i 


I  knew  there  must  be  a  famine,  because  the  'Free- 
man's Journal'  said  so;  but  for  the  life  of  me  I 
could  not  detect  it. 

I  had  always  pictured  Western  Ireland,  and 
especially  the  county  Mayo,  and  more  especially 
the  coastwise  districts  of  that  same,  as  an  ach- 
ing desolation  and  destitution.  I  thought  the 
country  was  a  turn-and-turn  of  rolling  screes  and 
sopping  bog.  A  guide-book  I  had  picked  up  in 
the  Shelbourne  at  breakfast  warned  me  that  the 
sleeping  accommodation  at  Killala,  whither  I  was 
tending,  was  little  or  none.  I  conceived  myself 
shivering  in  a  wet  rug  on  a  wet  mud  floor,  snuffed 
at  by  curious  pigs,  roosted  upon  by  callous  fowls. 
I  thought  regretfully  of  the  warm  soft  sand  of  Afri- 
can deserts. 

And  behold,  the  country  through  which  I  ap- 
proached starving  Killala  was  singularly  like  cer- 
tain grazing  districts  of  England,  only  more  beauti- 
ful. England  is  green  after  any  other  country ; 
Ireland  was  greener  with  a  tenderer  and  sprightlier 
verdure.  Stones  there  were  a  many  in  a  few  fields, 
and  the  4-foot  walls  of  all  showed  how  many  there 

'  Daily  Mail,  May  1898. 
244 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A    FAMINE  245 

had  been  before  the  land  was  cleared.  Bog  there 
was  also,  luridly  purple  beside  the  shining-  pastures, 
with  black  water  in  steep-cut  trenches,  and  stacks 
of  brown  peats  beside  them.  But  you  couldn't  be- 
lieve that  this  country  was  very  hungry. 

There  were  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills — milch 
cows,  young  steers  and  heifers ;  here  were  ewes, 
and  the  lambs  could  hardly  suck  them  for  the  hang- 
ing mantles  of  wool ;  naked  pink  pigs  gleamed 
along  the  hedgerows ;  ducks  and  geese  waddled 
at  the  head  of  their  families  by  every  blue  stream 
and  black  lough ;  the  white  tree-girdled  cottages 
were  all  a-cluck  with  laying  hens.  Where  was  the 
famine?  It  might  be  lurking  somewhere;  but  a 
country  so  alive  with  beasts  could  not  look  starving 
if  it  tried. 

Out  of  the  window  at  Ballina — the  last  station 
before  the  end  of  the  line — I  saw  a  young  priest 
riding  as  smart  a  black  cob  as  you  ever  saw  at 
Tattersall's,  three  young  ladies  on  bicycles,  and  a 
family  in  a  four-wheeled  dog-cart.  Thank  heaven, 
everybody  wasn't  destitute.  And  right  on  to  Killala, 
Avhere  there  suddenly  broke  into  view  a  sea  as  blue 
as  an  Academy  picture,  the  landscape  was  still  close, 
rich  turf,  almost  exasperatingly  succulent.  At 
Killala  there  did,  indeed,  show  a  momentary  prom- 
ise. The  platform  was  empty  but  for  one  porter 
and  a  man  with  a  long  colourless  beard,  who  might 
have  been  posing  as  the  only  inhabitant  left.  But 
as  he  took  my  bag  he  disclosed  the  fact  that  there 


246  THINGS   SEEN 

was  indeed  an  hotel  where  a  traveller  could  get  a 
bed. 

"If  yer  honour  should  be  wanting  to  go  to  Bally- 
cashtle  now,  to-morrow,"  he  began,  "I  have  a  cyar, 
sorr."  It  revived  one's  confidence  in  the  world 
somehow  to  find  that  Irish  peasants  really  do  say 
"cyar,  sorr" ;  but  when  he  went  on  to  deplore  the 
depopulation  of  the  country,  I  began  to  come  back 
to  the  interest  of  my  errand.  I  was  on  its  track  al- 
ready. "How  long  has  that  been  going  on?"  I 
asked  eagerly.  "  'Tis  thirrty  years  now,  sorr,"  he 
replied.  And  that  was  all  the  famine  intelligence  I 
got  out  of  him. 

Nobody  could  call  Killala  a  stately  city — city, 
mark  you ;  at  any  rate,  it  has  a  bishop,  though  only 
500  inhabitants — nor  even  a  strikingly  clean  one; 
but  Killala  also  hardly  wore  the  look  of  starvation. 
The  hotel  was  the  best  parlour  and  best  bedroom 
of  one  of  the  most  flourishing  shopkeepers,  so  it 
evidently  wasn't  fair  to  judge  by  that.  But  the 
smaller  houses,  though  only  two  rooms,  and  not 
wonderfully  well  kept,  were  as  commodious  and  as 
well  furnished  with  pots  and  pans  and  crockery  as 
the  ordinary  English  labourer's.  Most  of  them  were 
weak  in  the  doors  and  windows,  and  there  was 
usually  grass  growing  on  the  thatch ;  but  as  it 
would  be  perfectly  easy  to  clear  it  ofi  in  a  morn- 
ing, and  nobody  seemed  to  have  any  very  pressing 
work  to  do,  I  imagine  they  prefer  their  thatches  so. 

I  went  out  for  a  short  walk  to  reconnoitre  the 
famine.    Everywhere  I  found  the  same  enchanting 


IN   SEARCH    OF   A   FAMINE  247 

beauty  of  country,  the  same  abundance  of  stock,  the 
same  shiftless,  apparently  contented  poverty,  but  no 
token  of  starvation.  The  land  rose  and  dipped  now 
into  a  family  of  little  round  knolls,  now  into  a  wide 
sweep  of  valley  climbing  gently  to  a  round  homely 
blue  mountain  in  the  distant  twilight.  Nothing  pre- 
tended to  be  grand,  though  batches  here  and  there 
were  bleak.  The  country  looked  gentle  and,  above 
all,  fresh  and  green.  The  whole  world  can  show 
nothing  like  the  vivid  lustre  of  Ireland's  pastures. 
Close-cropped,  undulating,  springy,  they  are  such 
fields  as  turn  the  mind  generally  towards  a  good 
horse. 

It  is  not  all  fine  grass  and  clover,  and  the  ex- 
tremity of  Mayo  is  ill-placed  for  markets  ;  but  more 
than  half  of  the  land  was  such  as  you  would  gladly 
pay  £3  or  £4  or  £5  an  acre  for  near  London. 
Across  it  tramped  peasants,  not  so  stout  as  ours, 
and  barefooted  girls  in  shawls,  to  milk  the  cow  as 
she  stood  in  the  pasture.  When  the  face  turned  to- 
wards you  out  of  the  shawl  you  saw  carmine  cheeks 
and  black  eyes  that  left  you  blinking,  or  else  skins 
of  peach-blossom  and  wide,  clear  grey  eyes  that 
filled  you  with  a  vague  desire  to  pray.  The  only 
thing  more  beautiful  than  the  Irish  land  is  the  Irish 
women :  even  when  they  are  old  with  the  prema- 
ture age  of  poverty  and  raggedness,  the  grace  and 
the  wonderful  eyes  and  the  courteous,  modest  liquid 
speech  compel  the  homage  you  would  not  pay  to 
diamonds.  And  of  both  men  and  women  you  mark 
that  while  your  apparition  plainly  consumes  them 


248  THINGS    SEEN 

with  wonder  and  curiosity  there  is  no  hint  of  boor- 
ishness — no  echo  of  our  own  rustic  guffaw.  The 
Irish  peasant  is  a  natural  gentleman.  A  string  of 
shaggy  donkeys  came  up  the  road,  peats  in  the 
panniers,  the  vision  of  an  angel  swinging  bare  legs 
from  the  beast's  rump,  and  guiding  him  with  a  little 
stick,  for  all  the  world  like  an  Egyptian  fellah.  Then 
another  donkey,  this  time  with  the  panniers  half-full 
of  provisions  from  the  shop  in  Killala,  a  small  boy 
perched  behind,  and  his  mother  tramping  after. 
Likely  enough  the  groceries  were  bought  on  credit, 
though  they  may  have  been  bartered  for  eggs ;  at 
any  rate,  there  they  were,  going  home  to  be  eaten — 
which  is  not  a  sign  of  starvation.  And  below,  in  a 
field  on  the  skirts  of  Killala,  my  eye  fell  on  a  large 
round  tent.  It  looked — but,  no,  not  in  famine-time 
— but,  yes,  here  was  the  bill  of  it  before  my  nose 
on  the  wall.  To-day,  at  2.30  and  7.30,  Davies's 
World-renowned  Circus ! 

I  went ;  should  I  ever  not  go  to  a  circus  ?  It  was 
aptly  pointed  out  on  the  posters  that  Davies's  circus 
does  not  depend  upon  paltry  items,  but  that  every 
event  is  of  the  highest  possible  quality.  But  for 
the  moment  we  are  less  concerned  with  the  aesthetic 
than  the  economic  aspect  of  Davies's  circus.  If  my 
counting  was  right,  there  attended,  exclusive  of  two 
boys  who  crawled  in  under  the  tent,  309  persons. 
With  all  allowance  for  those  who  came  in  from  the 
country  round,  309  is  not  bad,  during  a  famine,  for 
a  population  of  500.    Of  the  309,  57  paid  is.  and 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A    FAMINE  249 

249  6d. ;  three  small  girls  attended  at  the  expense 
of  the  'Daily  Mail.' 

The  money  taken  at  the  door — I  hope  this  is  not 
giving  away  the  Messrs.  Davies's  professional 
secrets — would  thus  work  out  at  £2,  17s.  plus  £6, 
4s.  6d. ;   total,  £9,  is.  6d. 

Now,  £9,  IS.  6d.  is  not  a  vast  sum.  And  I  should 
be  the  last  creature  in  the  world  to  regret  that  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  in  Ireland  should  attend 
circuses  once  a  week  for  the  whole  of  their  lives. 
They  have  little  enough  to  amuse  them,  I  should 
■say.  Lord  Salisbury  has  recommended  the  diver- 
sion ;  and  it  was  an  interesting  testimonial  to  the 
wisdom  of  his  famous  indiscretion  that,  while  the 
nephew  is  labouring  at  Local  Government,  Killala 
went  with  the  uncle.  Circus  by  all  means ;  only 
when  a  district  insisted  on  as  especially  famine- 
stricken  can  spare  £9  for  a  circus — well,  things 
can't  be  so  very  deadly,  can  they?  Of  course  there 
w'as  plenty  of  room  left  in  the  neighbourhood  for 
starving  people  who  didn't  go.  But  the  ratepayers 
went,  and  it  has  been  a  familiar  cry  at  Westminster 
that  the  ratepayers  are  only  a  few  shillings  better 
than  the  paupers,  and  that  therefore  it  is  brutal 
tyranny  to  make  them  pay  a  quarter  of  the  relief 
works.  The  money  paid  at  the  door  of  the  circus 
means  a  union's  share  of  a  week's  relief  works  for 
120  people.  It  is  compatible  enough  with  poverty, 
but  hardly  with  downright  dearth. 

On  the  evidence  of  the  world-famous  circus,  as 
well  as  the  general  look  of  things,  Killala  seemed 


250  THINGS    SEEN 

to  be  drawn  blank.    I  must  search  for  the  famine 
a  little  farther  on. 

11. 

The  long  white  road  ahead,  and  the  rolling  green 
on  either  hand,  the  sun  on  your  cheek,  and  the 
Atlantic  salt  on  your  lips,  and  a  big  bay  mare  in  the 
car ;  in  such  a  country  on  such  a  day,  how  good  it 
was  to  be  alive !  Up  and  down  the  rough  but  hard- 
metalled  road  we  swung,  then  suddenly  came  down 
at  the  head  of  a  half-mile  stretch  of  firm  sand ;  be- 
yond it  a  bay  of  intense  turquoise ;  up  the  leftward 
clififs  a  climbing  village;  behind  us,  appearing  in 
the  corner  under  a  park  of  turf  and  trees,  a  little 
grey  stone  chapel. 

"The  praste  will  be  in  the  churrch,  sorr,"  said  the 
driver.  The  door  was  open,  and  you  could  see 
kneeling  figures  in  the  dusk.  Outside,  also,  in  the 
little  green  yard,  a  dozen  men  knelt  reverently  as 
the  bell  tinkled  within. 

It  was  a  saint's  day — I  forget  the  name,  but  it 
turned  out  to  be  the  Anglican  Ascension  Day — and 
by  consequence  a  holiday.  All  along  the  road,  afoot 
or  in  cars,  we  had  seen  passing  the  population — 
the  men  in  decent  black,  the  women  in  clean  gowns 
and  shawls.  Decidedly  the  famine  had  no  luck.  The 
first  day  I  tumbled  on  the  circus ;  to-day,  quite  un- 
intentionally, I  had  come  on  Rathlathan,  recom- 
mended as  the  most  starving  village  of  starving 
Mayo,  just  on  the  day  to  see  its  population  in  their 
best  clothes. 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A   FAMINE  251 

When  the  people  came  fihng  out  of  church,  I 
give  you  my  word  it  might  have  been  one  of  the 
quietest  EngHsh  watering-places  in  the  season.  I 
know  little  of  dress  fabrics,  but  the  women  ap- 
peared far  better  dressed  than  I  ever  saw  English 
peasants'  wives  and  daughters.  Not  a  man  but  had 
his  decent  black  coat.  I  thought  they  must  surely  be 
visitors ;  but  no  visitors — the  loss  is  theirs,  as  well 
as  the  village's — ever  come  to  Rathlathan.  Its  sons 
and  daughters  were  certainly  the  best  dressed 
starvelings  I  ever  saw. 

The  priest  had  blessed  the  last  of  the  congrega- 
tion, and  came  out  in  his  vestments — grey-haired, 
with  a  round  face,  short  nose,  twinkling  black  eyes 
rather  close  together,  and  a  beard  mown  rather  than 
shaved.  He  spoke  with  the  brogue  of  the  country, 
a  little  slow  and  indistinct,  like  a  recluse  with  few 
opportunities  of  keeping  his  tongue  oiled  for  con- 
versation. But  he  comprehended  my  business  with 
ready  courtesy,  and  took  me  to  his  house  and  gave 
me  biscuit  and  wine,  and  showed  me,  by  way  of  be- 
ginning, the  books  that  set  forth  his  relation  with 
the  Dublin  Mansion  House  Fund. 

There  were  only  ten  men  receiving  relief  in  the 
whole  parish  ;  but  then,  he  explained,  his  parish  and 
the  next  w^ere  furnishing  a  couple  of  hundred  to  the 
government  relief  works  across  the  bay,  where  a 
pier  was  being  built  for  fishing-boats.  The  ten — 
we  may  assume  that  only  ten  needed  this  relief, 
since  the  fund  had  supplied  plenty  of  money  for 
Rathlathan — were  all  employed  on  draining  their 


252  THINGS   SEEN 

own  land,  and  received  6s.  a  week.  T'hey  only  work 
five  days  weekly ;  what  hours,  opinion  seems  to 
differ,  some  saying  eight  to  two,  others  eight  to  five. 
But  the  curious  and  very  instructively  Irish  point 
that  emerged  from  the  record  was  that  the  men  on 
the  relief  works  do  not  work  themselves  at  all.  In 
the  table  headed  "Remarks"  you  saw  "Son  Michael 
to  work,"  "Son  Pat  to  work,"  "Grandson  Martin  to 
work" — somebody  else  to  work  for  him  against 
every  name.  The  work  supposed,  not  so  much  to 
be  publicly  useful — it  is  hardly  public  works,  pay- 
ing a  man  for  improving  his  own  land — as  to  con- 
stitute a  test  of  destitution ;  unless  a  man  be  really 
starving,  it  is  urged,  he  will  not  work  long  hours 
for  IS.  a  day.  Only  here  it  turned  out  that  what 
really  happens  is  that  somebody  else  works  for  him 
at  his  own  land  five  days  for  6s.  a  week !  I  know 
plenty  of  English  labourers,  not  starving,  who 
would  be  very  willing  to  undergo  the  same  test  on 
the  same  terms. 

His  reverence  said  his  flock  was  poor — poor 
always,  especially  poor  in  winter,  and  poorer  than 
ever  now,  since  the  potato  crop  failed  last  year,  and 
since  now,  at  the  pinching  time,  every  kind  of 
breadstuff  had  gone  up.  But  for  that  they  might 
have  pulled  through ;  but  the  wholly  accidental 
blow  of  the  rise  in  corn  on  the  top  of  the  failure  of 
potatoes  was  too  much  for  them.  Their  holdings 
are  very  small — four  acres  is  a  large  one,  and  some 
are  as  little  as  one  or  only  half  an  acre.  For  Rath- 
lathan,  you  see,  ekes  out  its  holdings  by  fishing — a 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A   FAMINE  253 

miserable  trade  enough  at  most  times,  and  es- 
pecially unproductive  between  Christmas  and  mid- 
May.  All  that  time,  said  the  priest,  his  flock  had 
made  nothing  off  either  sea  or  land.  The  relief  just 
kept  them  alive  on  Indian-meal  porridge,  and  that 
was  all.  For  next  crop  almost  everybody  had  had 
seed  potatoes,  most  oats,  and  some  ryegrass ;  but 
that  will  not  tell  before  next  year. 

So  said  the  priest.  Thereon,  recalling  the  com- 
plaints that  Mr.  Gerald  Balfour  has  not  done 
enough,  I  asked  him  whether,  with  the  existing  re- 
lief, his  people  could  carry  on  till  the  opening  of 
August,  when  they  begin  to  dig  the  new  potato 
crop.  And  his  reply  was  not  ambiguous.  "Yes," 
he  said ;  "if  the  present  relief  continues  they'll  pull 
through." 

The  priest  saying  that,  I  take  it  as  certain  ;  for  he 
was  at  pains,  not  unnaturally,  to  put  the  poverty  of 
his  people  at  its  very  poorest.  And,  indeed,  it  was 
plain  enough  that,  if  not  starving,  a  fair  proportion 
of  the  people  of  Rathlathan  were  miserably  indigent 
— more  indigent  than  anybody  willing  to  work 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  be.  The  village,  as  I  said, 
climbs  up  a  hill.  It  has  no  streets,  unless  you  call 
such  one  row  of  stones  and  ruts,  up  and  down 
which  a  man  of  nerve  could  drive  a  sure-footed 
horse.  For  the  rest,  you  can  go  from  hut  to  hut  up 
precipices  of  scaling  stones  with  little  muddy  water- 
falls trickling  down  over  them. 

We  went  into  a  hut.  The  clean  smell  of  peat 
struck  gratefully  on  the  nose,  and  the  cottage  ap- 


254  THINGS   SEEN 

peared  through  a  veil  of  blue  smoke.  The  floor  was 
flagstones,  uneven  and  broken,  at  one  end  disap- 
pearing altogether  in  a  litter  of  manure ;  half  of  it 
was  the  bed  of  the  cow,  now  at  pasture,  and  in  the 
other,  within  a  flagstone  sty,  reclined  the  sow  and 
her  nine  infants.  At  the  other  end  peat  glowed  on 
the  hearth ;  at  one  side  of  it,  in  a  corner,  was  a 
wooden  bed,  with  a  wooden  canopy  over  it ;  by  that 
a  dresser  with  crockery  and  cooking  pots;  by  the 
hearth  a  couple  of  stools,i — and  that  was  all  the 
furniture.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  dozen  fowls 
squabbled  over  what  looked  like  a  handful  of  meal. 
"That,"  said  the  priest  grimly,  "is  the  cleanest  cot- 
tage ye'll  see  for  a  long  while." 

The  others  to  my  eyes  were  not  appreciably 
dirtier,  but  they  were  no  cleaner  either.  As  we 
stumbled  and  slid  from  one  to  another  I  observed 
how  the  good  Father  ensured  that  the  poverty  of 
his  flock  should  lose  nothing  by  demonstration. 
As  thus : — 

Priest  {entering).     Who  lives  here? 
Inmate.     Good  marning  to  yer  reverence; 
good  marning  to  ye.  Father  Hugh. 
Priest.     Who  lives  here? 
Inmate.     Pat  O'Connor,  yer  reverence. 
Priest.     Are  ye  on  the  relief  works  now? 
{Silence.)     Yes:  ye  are.     How  long  do  ye 
work?     {Silence;  then  in  an  audible  aside:) 
Ah,  he's  dazed  with  trouble.    What  time  do 
ye  go  to  work  ? 

Inmate.    Eight  o'clock,  yer  reverence. 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A   FAMINE  255 

Priest.  Right ;  eight  o'clock.  And  when 
do  ye  lave  off?     (Silence.)     When    do    ye 

lave  off,  I  say?     Foi 

Inmate  (hastily).     Foive,  yer  reverence. 
Priest.     Yes,  foive ;  it's  too  long. 
Or  else  a  dialogue  like  this  : — 

Peasant.  Can  ye  tell  me  now,  yer  rever- 
ence, why  they  won't  take  me  on  for  the 
relafe  ? 

Priest.     How  many  of  a  family  have  ye? 
Peasant.     Four. 
Priest.     Four  children? 
Peasant.     No;  one  child  and  my  mother 
and  myself  and  my  wife. 

Priest.     Have  ye  a  cow  now? 
Peasant.     Yes,  yer  reverence;  an  old  cow, 
maybe  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old. 

Priest.     Ah,  then,  it's  that  old  cow  has 
*  done  ye.    No;  I  can't  help  ye.    God  knows 

how  ye'll  do  for  a  living. 
Thus  was  I  dialogued  at  by  the  space  of  half  an 
hour  or  more.  But  through  all  the  hints  and  asides 
and  by-play  I  observed  one  or  two  facts.  First, 
I  saw  not  a  single  cottage  without  stock  of  some 
sort  or  other;  not  one  without  poultry,  not  one 
without  a  pig,  not  very  many  without  presumptive 
evidence  of  a  cow  in  the  shape  of  its  bed,  or,  more 
conclusive,  its  calf.  Secondly,  they  ostentatiously 
displayed  the  poverty  of  their  outer  rooms,  but 
drew  no  attention  to  their  inner,  in  which  they  are 
wont   to    keep    their    best   clothes    and    the    like. 


256  THINGS   SEEN 

Thirdly,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  men  who  had 
gone  out  to  fish,  not  a  single  man  in  the  village  was 
working. 

As  we  went  down  again  to  the  bay  we  met  the 
fishermen  coming  up.  "What  fish  did  ye  catch?" 
asked  Father  Hugh.  "None,  your  reverence,"  came 
the  glib  reply.  The  speaker  passed  up ;  just  behind 
him  followed  a  couple  of  men,  of  whom  the  second 
bore  two  large  shining  fish  in  his  hands ;  after 
them  came  a  donkey  whose  panniers  looked  as  if 
they  contained  more. 

That  struck  me  as  very  like  Rathlathan — and 
presumably  like  the  alleged  famine  as  a  whole.  The 
truth  is  bad  enough.  But  the  natural  sympathy 
for  bad  luck  and  indigence  is  too  likely  to  be  for- 
feited by  mendicancy  and  exaggeration. 

III. 

"Now,  did  ye  expect  to  find  a  place  like  this  in 
Foxford?"  asked  the  Mother  Superior. 

She  sat  among  rolls  of  tweed  and  flannel  in  the 
little  ofBce  of  the  factory.  She  was  very  short  and 
small,  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  I  could  hardly 
hear  her  voice  for  the  clatter  of  the  looms.  But  in 
her  face  sat  capacity,  as  well  as  sweetness,  and  it 
had  only  needed  the  most  casual  glance  at  the  in- 
stitution of  which  she  is  head  to  teach  me  that  here 
was  one  whose  words  on  the  problem  of  Western 
Ireland  should  not  be  allowed  to  fall  to  the  ground. 

Before  the  Sisters  of  Charity  set  up  their  convent, 
seven  years  ago,  the  Foxford  district  was  among 


IN    SEARCH    OF    A    FAMINE  257 

the  most  miserable  in  Ireland.  Here  the  soil  really 
is  wretched  beyond  exaggeration — stony,  boggy, 
light,  poor,  hopeless.  It  is  subdivided  into  plots 
seldom  larger  than  four  acres,  often  miserably  less, 
and  even  without  potato  failures  it  was  difficult 
enough  to  keep  soul  and  body  together  on  it.  The 
men  looked  east  for  their  bread — working  in  Eng- 
land at  hay  and  corn  harvests  to  make  the  rent. 
The  girls  looked  west  to  the  States,  and  the  driblets 
of  wages  they  sent  home  were  often  the  only  barrier 
between  their  parents  and  starvation.  You  would 
have  said  there  was  nothing  for  such  a  place  but 
the  most  sweeping  of  remedies — abolition  of  rent, 
wholesale  enlistment,  wholesale  emigration. 

Now  the  first  thing  that  greets  you  is  the  clash 
and  rattle  of  the  wool  factory.  While  members  of 
Parliament  have  been  sobbing  and  blustering  about 
Ireland's  throttled  industries,  women  have  set  to 
work  to  restore  them.  They  buy  the  peasant's  wool 
at  the  door — naturally  it  is  a  far  better  market  than 
he  could  find  elsewhere  in  out-of-the-world  Con- 
naught — and  teach  his  sons  and  daughters  to  weave 
it.  At  the  looms  I  saw  only  boys  and  girls,  not  one 
grown  person  except  the  Sister — elderly,  quiet, 
spectacled,  yet  with  a  purely  Irish  smile  lurking 
somewhere  round  her  lips — who  is  the  manager  of 
the  factory.  To  the  young  people  the  convent  was 
giving  the  best  and  the  most  needful  of  all  good 
gifts — a  trade. 

In  another  room  a  dozen  girls  were  knitting 
stockings. — by  machine,  for  the  Sisters  of  Charity 


258  THINGS   SEEN 

are  also  women  of  business.  Charity  is  not  so 
very  rare  in  this  world,  but  sensible  charity  is  rare 
enough  to  command  enthusiasm  wherever  you  may 
meet  it. 

From  the  knitting  I  went  to  the  school — such  a 
schoolroom  as  made  you  long  to  be  young  again, 
all  glass  and  light,  and  air,  and  outside  the  green 
sunshiny  hills  and  the  rushing  torrent  of  the  river 
Moy.  That  river,  I  should  have  told  you,  turns 
every  wheel  in  the  factory ;  and  observe  once  more 
that,  while  men  were  crying  out  upon  the  waste  of 
Mayo's  splendid  water-power,  women  turned  to  and 
made  use  of  it. 

The  next  thing  was  the  dairy,  then  the  kitchen, 
then  the  laundry.  All  these  are  departments  of 
instruction.  The  dairy,  of  course,  buys  its  milk  in 
the  districts ;  so  that  here,  again,  the  Sisters  both 
furnish  a  market  and  teach  a  trade.  Likewise  there 
is  a  poultry-rearing  school,  and  I  was  rejoiced  to 
find  the  Reverend  Mother  agree  that  for  an  all- 
round  hardy  fowl  there  is  nothing  like  the  Ply- 
mouth Rock.  From  the  villages  in  the  convent's 
sphere  of  influence — it  extends  five  miles  every  way, 
which  makes  nearly  100  square  miles  in  all — the 
Sisters  collect  and  sell  eggs ;  they  go  to  Dublin,  and 
the  peasantry  get  the  full  price  for  them,  only  de- 
ducting carriage.  That,  you  will  see,  they  could  not 
possibly  hope  to  get  anywhere  else. 

But  the  factory,  and  the  school,  and  the  dairy 
class,  and  the  laundry  class,  and  all  the  others,  are 
only  the  beginning  of  the  Sisters'  work.     For  five 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A    FAMINE  259 

miles  on  every  side  they  take  the  place  of  landlord 
and  poor-law  guardians,  and  sanitary  board,  and 
school  board,  and  charity  organisation  society,  and 
every  other  function  that  is  likely  to  do  their  people 
good.  The  landlord  lives  away  in  England  ;  it  is  the 
Sisters  who  institute  poultry  shows  and  stimulate 
vegetable-growing,  and  teach  the  value  of  a  nurs- 
ing-crop sown  with  their  oats.  It  is  they  who  have 
lured  the  peasants  to  clear  out  the  century-old 
manure-pits,  which  lay  breeding  disease  at  the  door 
of  every  hut,  and  to  put  their  refuse  on  the  land 
instead.  They  have  given  doors  that  will  keep  air 
out  and  windows  that  will  let  air  in.  They  have 
even  succeeded  here  and  there  in  establishing  the 
pig  outside  the  house,  instead  of  in — just  as  easy, 
and  healthier  for  pig  and  people,  after  once  the 
Irishman  sees  a  reason  to  do  it. 

"We  do  it,"  says  the  Reverend  Mother,  with  her 
unspeakably  sweet  and  humorous  smile,  "by  prizes. 
When  friends  send  us  seeds,  the  people  all  want  to 
be  in  at  the  divide,  as  they  call  it.  But  we  only 
give  them  to  those  who  have  cleared  away  their 
manure-pits,  and  they  come  to  know  it.  Then  we 
give  them  new  doors  and  windows  for  prizes  if  they 
keep  their  cabins  clean.  I  remember  in  1890,  at 
the  convent  where  I  then  was,  we  had  a  lot  of 
money  sent  us  to  distribute ;  and  it  demoralised  the 
people  so  dreadfully,  I  made  up  my  mind  they 
ought  never  to  be  given  anything  for  nothing 
again." 

In  their  own  district  the  management  of  the  relief- 


26o  THINGS    SEEN 

works  has  been  almost  entirely  undertaken  by  the 
Sisters.  When  I  drove  out  with  the  steward  of  the 
convent's  good  works,  or  whatever  I  should  call 
the  man  who  is  the  Superior's  representative  in 
managing-  the  people,  I  saw  the  entirely  wise  and 
practical  form  which  the  relief  had  taken.  Off  the 
main  road,  again  and  again,  I  saw  new  roads  run- 
ning to  where  you  could  see  thatches  rising  over 
the  confused  boulders.  All  these  are  new  made 
this  year,  and  all  lead  to  villages  where  before  noth- 
ing on  wheels  could  ever  come.  Where  before  a 
donkey  with  panniers  could  hardly  go,  you  could 
now,  with  care,  drive  a  coach  and  four.  Twenty- 
three  such  roads  in  all  have  been  blasted  and 
metalled  and  rolled  by  the  people  they  are  to  bring 
into  living  touch  with  the  outside  world. 

We  landed  in  one  of  the  poorest  villages — Kil- 
more  was  its  name.  The  land  was  miserable  and 
the  holdings  small;  but,  by  comparison,  the  place 
was  clean  and  well  kept.  Here  you  saw  a  pink 
new  door,  there  a  large  window  with  a  sash.  One 
house  had  a  new  chimney,  another  a  newly-repaired 
roof. 

But  there  was  a  reverse  side  to  it  all.  The  mo- 
ment we  set  foot  in  the  village  the  inhabitants  all 
crowded  up  to  beg  for  more:  It  was  painfully 
evident  that  Irish  mendicancy  grows  by  feeding. 
"Now,  Mr.  M'Carthy,  when  are  ye  going  to  bring 
us  a  new  dure?  Look  at  it,  now."  "Mr.  M'Carthy, 
could  ye  not  lend  me  a  wheel-barrow  ?  I've  cleared 
my  manure-pit,  and  I  want  to  make  a  little  grass- 


IN    SEARCH    OF   A    FAMINE  261 

plot."  "Mr.  M'Carthy,  I  got  no  oats  at  the  divide, 
only  ryegrass ;  could  ye  not  let  me  have  some  oats  ? 
I'm  an  old  woman,  all  alone ;  who's  going  to  help 
me?" 

The  more  they  had,  the  more  they  wanted.  With 
them  it  was  not  relief  from  hunger — that  they  had 
already;  it  was  anything  they  could  get.  As  usual, 
not  a  man  in  the  village  was  at  work ;  they  were 
just  smoking.  The  climax  came  with  the  most 
prosperous  inhabitant  of  the  village.  He  had  a  cow 
and  calf,  pig,  ducks,  fowls,  and  a  small  garden ;  he 
was  a  young,  able-bodied  man,  and  about  to  leave 
to  work  in  England.  But  he  begged  most  sturdily 
for  a  gate  for  his  garden.  It  was  walled,  like  all 
gardens  there,  with  stones,  which  are  only  too 
abundant.  But  he  complained  that  the  donkeys 
pushed  the  wall  down. 

"Then  why  don't  you  build  it  stronger?"  I  asked  ; 
"there  are  lots  of  stones." 

"Then  how  will  I  get  through  to  it  myself?" 

"Make  a  stile  to  get  over." 

"No ;  Mr.  M'Carthy,  ye  must  send  me  a  gate  be- 
fore I  go  to  England,  and  a  man  to  put  it  up." 

In  two  hours  he  could  have  made  himself  a  per- 
fectly good  wall  and  stile.  But  he  preferred  to  beg 
for  a  gate  and  a  man  to  put  it  up. 

I  asked  the  steward  why  the  old  woman,  who 
was  quite  alone,  and  could  not  possibly  be  expected 
to  keep  herself  except  by  begging,  did  not  go  into 
the  workhouse.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "they  find  it  very 
difficult  to  go  into  the  workhouse." 


262  THINGS   SEEN 

So  do  better  men  and  women  in  my  country,  I 
told  him.  If  you  are  to  have,  and  pay  for,  work- 
houses at  all,  this  woman  was  plainly  a  case  for 
one.  Only  to  the  Irish  mind  it  is  quite  a  sufficient 
answer  that  "they  find  it  very  difficult."  They 
mustn't  be  asked  to  do  anything  they  find  difficult. 


IV. 


I  didn't  find  it.  To  be  sure,  I  only  visited  a  small 
corner  of  the  counties  where  it  is  supposed  to  be. 
But  as  that  corner  was  the  one  whence  the  loudest 
cries  of  distress  had  come,  I  think  we  may  assume 
that  there  is  no  famine  in  Ireland  at  all.  There  is 
considerable  distress ;  but  it  has  been  considerably 
exaggerated,  partly  for  political  purposes,  partly 
from  Celtic  hysteria;  and  the  measures  taken  to 
reHeve  this  season's  exceptional  poverty  are,  and 
will  be,  adequate. 

In  saying  this  I  do  not  mean  that  the  conditions 
of  life  among  the  Mayo  peasantry  are  such  as  they 
should  be.  They  are  obviously  not.  When  you 
find  a  population  in  the  condition,  and  content  with 
the  condition,  of  outside  paupers,  it  is  plain  that 
there  is  something  very  wrong  somewhere.  Prob- 
ably the  blame  lies  pretty  equally  on  everybody 
concerned.  I  do  not  wish  to  alarm  anybody  by 
anarchistic  opinions ;  but  I  think  a  landlord  who 
draws  rent  from  the  land  and  makes  it  no  return, 
in  the  shape  of  residence  and  intelligent  supervision 
of  his  tenants,  is  little  better  than  a  robber.    I  think 


IN   SEARCH    OF   A    FAMINE  263 

a  political  leader  who  discourages  his  followers  from 
self-help,  or  from  making  an  honest  living  as  sol- 
diers or  constables,  is  little  better  than  a  traitor  to 
them.  And  I  think  a  peasant  who  whines  for  char- 
ity with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth  is  little  better  than  a  criminal. 

Of  course,  you  blame  the  peasant  least.  The 
rent  and  the  subdivision  of  the  land  are  a  terrible 
handicap  on  his  industry ;  he  has  neither  the  knowl- 
edge nor  the  capital  to  substitute  other  industries 
for  his  primitive  tillage;  his  ignorance  puts  him  in 
the  hands  of  leaders  who  hardly  seem  to  go  the 
directest  way  to  give  him  practical  and  permanent 
help ;  he  himself  is  dazed  and  sodden  by  many  gen- 
erations of  hopeless  poverty.  And  then  he  is  Celt. 
You  do  not  find  him  at  work ;  he  says  there  is  noth- 
ing to  do.  Give  an  Englishman  or  a  Scotsman 
four  acres  to  himself,  and  see  if  he  finds  nothing 
to  do. 

However,  I  am  not  here  to  write  essays  on  Irish 
land,  or  Irish  poHtics,  or  the  Irish  character:  the 
question  for  the  moment  is  the  distress  and  the  re- 
lief. But  for  the  exceptional  help  rendered  I  think 
there  would  have  been  real  starvation.  But  in 
saying  that  the  present  relief,  if  continued,  is  ade- 
quate, I  do  not  go  at  all  on  my  own  observation 
only.  I  take  the  priest  of  Rathlathan,  who  says 
his  people  w'ill  pull  through  till  the  new  potato  crop 
is  dug ;  I  take  the  Sisters  of  Foxford,  who  have  sur- 
mounted the  danger  of  present  hunger,  and  are 
working  on,  most  laudably,  with  their  efforts  for 


264  THINGS    SEEN 

permanent  amelioration.  I  take  the  opinion  of  a 
minister  of  religion,  not  Catholic  who,  while  fully 
alive  to  the  hardships  of  his  flock,  told  me  plainly: 
"There's  nothing  that  you  could  call  famine ;  there 
does  be  great  poverty,  but  there  docs  be  exaggera- 
tion." 

These  being  the  opinions  of  people  all  naturally 
tending  to  overstate  rather  than  understate  the 
necessities  of  the  people,  we  may  take  it  for  certain 
that  this  year's  crisis  is  tided  over.  I  shall  not  trou- 
ble you,  therefore,  with  the  lengthy  criticisms  I 
heard  about  the  manner  of  distributing  relief, 
though  these  might  be  borne  in  mind  in  view  of  an- 
other bad  potato  crop.  It  was  said,  and  I  should 
say  plausibly,  that  it  is  a  great  mistake  to  intrust 
relief  works  either  to  boards  of  guardians  or  any 
other  local  agency.  You  will  never  get  justice  done 
thus,  I  was  told,  not  once  nor  twice,  since  every- 
body has  favourites ;  the  really  needy  are  left  out, 
and  some  are  taken  on  who  could  struggle  along 
without.  To  my  mind  the  Irish  peasant  appeared 
to  look  on  relief  works  less  as  a  last  defence  against 
starvation  than  as  a  natural  right  of  man — which 
they  obviously  ought  not  to  be.  And  one  of  my 
informants — a  Catholic  and  a  Nationalist  all  right 
— took  my  breath  away  by  regretting  the  days  when 
such  public  doles  had  been  superintended  by  the 
R.E.  or  the  police. 

Of  course  the  country  was  vocal  with  criticisms 
about  the  works  selected  for  public  employment. 
Some  of  these — the  pier  for  fishing-boats  opposite 


IN    SEARCH    OF    A    FAMINE  265 

Eathlathan  or  the  roads  to  the  sequestered  villages 
about  Foxford — were  of  plain  and  urgent  public 
utility.  On  the  other  hand,  some  people  com- 
plained that  work  was  put  on  to  entirely  useless 
accommodation  roads,  and  held  it  would  have  been 
far  better  to  pay  3s.  a  week  instead  of  6s.  and  let 
men  work  on  their  own  holdings.  Very  likely  it 
would  ;  only  I  doubt  whether  they  would  work,  and, 
moreover,  such  employment  would  be  useless  un- 
less accompanied  by  some  independent  and  trust- 
Vi'orthy  criterion  of  destitution.  It  appears  essential 
that  pubHc  employment  ought  only  to  be  given  in 
the  last  resort ;  the  Mayo  peasantry  are  quite  pau- 
perised enough  already. 

One  suggestion  favoured  a  light  railway  from 
Killala  to  Ballycastle,  if  not  along  the  whole  of  the 
northern  Mayo  coast  up  to  Belmullet.  That,  no 
doubt,  would  be  an  ideal  public  employment,  and 
would  bring  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery  in 
the  world  into  touch  with  such  tourists  as  are 
neither  very  leisured  nor  very  moneyed.  There  is, 
also,  at  least  one  flagstone  quarry  which  could  be 
profitably  worked  with  the  aid  of  such  a  line,  and  it 
would,  of  course,  open  up  the  country  generally.  I 
am  afraid  there  is  only  the  poorest  chance  of  such  a 
railway  making  its  expenses  for  a  very  long  time. 
But  as  an  investment  in  national  prosperity  it  should 
bring  in  its  return  from  the  first. 

These  are  points  which  might  come  useful  in  the 
event  of  another  shortage ;  but,  of  course,  any 
remedy,  to  be  practical,  ought  to  aim  at  prevention. 


266  THINGS   SEEN 

Of  such  there  are  dozens  in  the  air,  from  land 
nationaUsation  downwards.  It  might  be  doubted 
whether  the  Irish  peasant  is  the  ideal  small  pro- 
prietor, but  in  any  case  we  will  leave  that  question 
for  politicians.  In  the  meantime,  two  immediate 
reforms  are  being  pursued :  the  obliteration  of 
potato  disease  by  chemicals,  and  the  cultivation  of 
many  crops  instead  of  one. 

The  sprayer  was  first  used,  I  believe,  in  France 
against  phylloxera  in  vineyards.  Some  years  ago  It 
was  introduced  into  the  West  of  Ireland.  It  is  an 
easily  handled  machine,  which  distributes  over  a 
crop  of  potatoes  a  solution  of  blue-stone  (sulphate 
of  copper).  The  first  landlord  who  introduced  it 
in  the  Ballina  district  grew  two  parallel  patches ; 
one  he  sprayed  and  the  other  he  neglected,  and  he 
encouraged  his  tenants  and  poor  neighbours  to 
watch  the  result.  The  one  gave  a  good  and  healthy 
crop ;  the  other  was  destroyed  by  blight. 

Need  it  be  said  that  the  peasantry  at  first  re- 
garded the  sprayer  with  profound  distrust  and  aver- 
sion? But  the  present  stress  has  thrown  everybody 
back  on  it ;  you  will  find  everybody  now  most  anx- 
ious to  use  the  sprayer,  and  most  confident  as  to  its 
ability  to  stamp  out  blight  utterly  in  four  years. 
There  is  much  reason  to  believe  this  true. 

Now  a  sprayer  costs  about  25s.,  and  the  ordinary 
Irish  small-holder  is  not  in  a  position  to  buy  one. 
Several  might  combine ;  but,  of  course,  the  sulphate 
of  copper  has  to  be  applied  in  dry  w^eather,  lest  it  be 
improfitably  washed  off  again.    There  are  not  too 


IN    SEARCH    OF    A    FAMINE  267 

many  ary  days  a  season  in  county  Mayo,  and  that 
puts  a  limit  on  the  common  ownership  of  sprayers. 
The  Mansion  House  Fund  has  given  a  certain  num- 
ber; in  theory  these  are  to  be  used  only  for  the 
potatoes  presented  by  the  fund,  but  to  expect  that 
is  hardly  to  allow  for  human  nature.  All  authorities 
agree  that  more  sprayers  are  wanted,  and  I  can 
hardly  conceive  a  fitter  form  for  charity  to  take. 

As  for  diversity  of  crops,  a  good  deal  has  been 
done  by  the  Dublin  Fund,  by  private  friends  of  the 
Foxford  Convent,  and  similar  agencies.  The 
peasantry  eat  little  oatmeal,  and  depend,  beyond 
potatoes,  mainly  on  Indian  meal  imported  from 
America ;  at  present  they  are  rewarded  for  this  by 
having  to  pay  prices  almost  doubled.  Now  most 
of  the  holders  have  received  presents  of  seed  oats, 
rye,  ryegrass,  and — at  anyrate  in  the  Foxford 
sphere — vegetable  seeds.  The  use  of  oatmeal 
would  be  a  great  step  in  advance ;  the  growth  of 
vegetables  might  become  almost  as  useful  a  stand- 
by as  poultry-keeping,  which,  at  the  rate  of  5s.  per 
100  eggs  bartered  for  food  in  the  shops,  is  keeping 
many  a  peasant's  home  somehow  going  at  this 
moment. 

But  when  all  is  said  and  done,  you  still  have  the 
Irish  peasant  to  deal  with — the  most  adorable  and 
the  most  impossible  person  in  the  world.  You  can 
give  him  a  sprayer,  but  will  he  use  it?  You  can 
give  him  seed,  but  will  he  grow  it  ?  And  if  he  does, 
won't  he  do  his  very  utmost  to  pretend  that  he  is 
just  as  badly  off  as  ever?    You  would  say  that  he 


268  THINGS   SEEN 

likes  to  be  poor ;  he  likes  to  be  a  beggar ;  he  prefers 
being  dirty,  and  keeps  the  pig  in  the  house  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  his  health.  The  truth  is  that  he 
is  a  child,  and  he  cannot  do  without  a  parent  or 
guardian.  He  wants  a  guardian  who  understands 
him,  who  will  not  be  sternly  unsympathetic,  as  an 
Englishman  would  usually  be,  nor  yet  softly  in- 
dulgent, as  an  Irishman  of  his  own  class  would  be. 
When  you  see  such  tutelage  existing — as  at  Fox- 
ford,  though  with  perhaps  an  inclination  to  cocker- 
ing— you  see  that  it  is  just  possible,  with  toil  and 
curses,  to  do  something  with  the  Irish  after  all. 
The  natural  person  to  have  taken  him  in  hand  was 
his  landlord.  Only,  where  is  he?  In  his  absence 
comes  the  member  of  Parliament,  and  then  begins 
the  Irish  question. 


"DURING  HER   MAJESTY'S   PLEASURE."^ 

I. 

"There  isn't  a  strait-Jacket  in  the  place,  nor  a 
padded  room,"  said  the  superintendent.  I  gave  a 
gasp  of  amazement.  Six  or  seven  hundred  criminal 
lunatics,  and  not  a  strait-jacket  among  them !  But 
it  was  I  who  was  absurd.  I  had  a  foolish  idea  that 
a  lunatic  is  always  in  a  state  of  acute  mania — always 
screaming  and  shaking  bars.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  heard  not  a  single  scream  in  Broadmoor.  Mad- 
ness or  sanity,  as  the  superintendent  said,  is  a  ques- 
tion of  degree.  It  may  be  impossible  to  treat  a 
man  as  sane,  and  yet  equally  impossible  for  a  casual 
acquaintance  to  say  that  he  is  mad. 

All  the  restraint  at  Broadmoor  is  exerted  by 
hand,  by  human,  not  mechanical,  power.  It  is  a 
most  rigid  rule  that  no  attendant  may  lay  single 
hands  even  on  the  most  violent  patient ;  he  must 
blow  his  whistle  for  aid.  When  three  or  more  men 
approach  him,  even  a  maniac  is  usually  sane  enough 
not  to  struggle.  But  if  he  does,  then  he  has  over- 
v/helming  force  against  him,  and  is  the  less  likely  to 
be  hurt. 

That  was  the  first  misapprehension  bowled  over 
by  a  visit  to  Broadmoor;  there  were  others  to  fol- 

'  Daily  Mail,   November  1897. 
369 


270  THINGS   SEEN 

low.  I  was  taken  out  on  to  the  terraced  garden ;  the 
asylum  stands  on  a  hill,  and  if  the  high  red  walls 
give  the  first  impression  of  a  prison,  the  noble  pros- 
pect over  miles  of  fir-clothed  hill,  the  gauzy  curtain 
of  distant  mist,  the  clearer  blue  sky,  and  the  clearer 
air  that  you  only  find  in  hilly,  sandy,  heather-and- 
fir-tree  country, — these  are  the  next  best  thing  to 
freedom.  The  tiers  of  garden  were  marked  out  into 
little  plots ;  each,  I  heard  with  new  amazement,  is 
the  private  garden  of  an  inmate.  It  is  not  the  best 
time  of  year  to  see  gardens,  but  they  were  full  of 
strawberry  plants,  carnations,  winter  vegetables, 
even  fruit-trees.  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  that 
the  small  cultivators  grow  most  prodigious  crops  to 
the  square  yard.  A  man  must  needs  love  his  gar- 
den when  it  is  all  he  has  in  the  world. 

But  I  was  once  more  surprised  to  hear  that  they 
buy  their  own  manure.  An  inmate  who  works — on 
his  garden,  at  tailoring,  boot-making,  mattress- 
making — gets  one-eighth  of  the  product  of  his 
labour  for  himself,  and,  within  obvious  limits,  he 
can  do  what  he  likes  with  it.  If  he  has  a  private 
income  he  can  get  a  proportion  of  it  to  spend.  He 
can  order  his  own  clothes  from  the  village  tailor ; 
he  can  order  a  brace  of  birds  for  his  dinner ;  he  can 
send  presents  to  his  friends.  Only  the  most  pre- 
cious, and  surely  the  most  pathetic,  present  of  all, 
is  the  basket  of  strawberries  or  box  of  pears,  grown 
on  his  own  plot  by  his  own  labour,  that  a  working 
man  will  send  somewhere  out  into  the  world  to  his 
wife. 


"DURING  HER  MAJESTY'S  PLEASURE"  2/1 

When  I  came  to  see  the  inmates  I  perceived  that 
Broadmoor  is  not  a  prison.  It  is  a  huge  mental 
hospital,  and  the  principal  thing  used  in  it  is  healthy- 
occupation.  You  can  gauge  a  man's  mental  health 
almost  exactly  by  the  degree  in  which  he  notices 
his  fellows.  A  man  who  is  very  ill  stands  and  walks 
among  his  companions  all  day ;  he  sees  them  and 
hears  them  with  eye  and  ear.  But  in  his  mind  he 
is  quite  alone,  a  hermit  dwelling  vcith  his  own  de- 
lusions. When  a  man  is  better  he  will  make  ac- 
quaintances and  friends ;  he  will  begin  to  interest 
himself  in  his  work  or  his  play.  And  the  more  he 
interests  himself  in  things  not  himself,  the  better  he 
becomes. 

As  this  was  expounded  to  me  we  passed  by  the 
lawn-tennis  court.  Two  gentlemen  who  had  mur- 
dered were  playing  two  gentlemen  who  had  at- 
tempted murder.  Inside  the  block  where  these  live 
tea  was  being  got  ready — not  at  one  long  table,  but 
at  many  short  ones ;  the  sun  slanted  on  to  the 
grained  wood-work,  and  the  fire  crackled  cheerily. 
We  passed  the  row  of  little  bedrooms ;  you  cannot 
call  them  cells,  for  the  inmates  use  them  only  at 
night :  a  glazed  slit  by  the  door,  through  which  the 
attendant  on  night  duty  can  flash  his  lantern  on  to 
the  pillow,  is  the  only  suggestion  of  captivity.  One 
room  was  being  put  in  order — not  by  the  owner,  but 
by  a  poorer  patient,  his  servant.  Then  we  came  into 
the  day-room  ;  it  looked  exceedingly  like  the  smok- 
ing-room of  an  unpretentious  but  comfortable  hotel. 
Men  lounged  about  on  benches  in  the  sun,  or  in 


272  THINGS    SEEN 

armchairs  before  the  fire.  Most  of  these  were  grey- 
bearded  ;  the  younger  men  were  out  of  doors,  but 
exercise,  hke  work,  is  recommended  by  persuasion 
rather  than  enforced. 

Here  were  books  and  newspapers  in  abundance — 
chess,  draughts,  cards,  and  a  bilHard-table.  Here 
was  a  quiet,  trim,  scholarly-looking  man  who  had 
pushed  his  wife  over  a  clifif;  there  a  rougher, 
ragged-bearded  elder  who  had  throttled  his  senior 
partner;  there,  reading  the  'Daily  Mail,'  a  mild- 
eyed  visionary  whose  mission  in  life  is  to  kill  a 
royal  person.  They  exchanged  courteous  "Good 
afternoons"  with  the  doctor ;  of  the  stranger  they 
took  no  more  heed  than  one  would  of  a  visitor  in  a 
club.  And  the  couple  of  dark-blue  attendants, 
standing  quiet,  decorous,  tactful,  but  vigilant  in  the 
midst  of  a  dozen  madmen,  might  almost  have  been 
club  servants. 

But  there  is  another  side  to  Broadmoor.  These 
were  the  first-class  patients  in  both  senses — the  best 
mentally  and  socially.  In  another  block  we  come 
into  a  long  passage  wdiich  opened  through  barred 
windows  on  to  a  courtyard.  It  was  full  of  men  and 
keepers — the  men  in  white  trousers  and  long  grey 
sleeveless  cloaks.  Some  walked  swiftly  to  and  fro, 
as  if  bent  on  important  business  ;  others  stood  stock- 
still,  as  if  they  had  forgotten  their  own  existence ; 
all  alike  looked  straight  out  of  their  eyes,  yet 
seemed  to  see  no  one  and  nothing.  Only  one  man 
noticed  the  doctors  and  me  :  he  came  up  and  looked 
me  in  the  face  with  unwinking  eyes,  and  began  to 


"DURING  HER  MAJESTY'S  PLEASURE"  273 

speak.  He  spoke  on  and  on,  without  pause  and 
without  modulation ;  his  speech  was  educated ;  he 
spoke  of  vohs  and  elhptical  orbits,  and  of  myste- 
rious being's  from  Camden,  New  Jersey,  who  had 
murdered  his  father  with  Rontgen  rays.  He  was 
abreast  of  every  movement  in  physical  science  up 
to  yesterday's  'Times,'  and  he  was  there  from  a 
county  asylum  for  killing  the  doctor  with  a  stone  in 
a  pocket-handkerchief. 

From  the  next  court  a  crowd  swarmed  up  at  the 
view  of  a  strange  face  like  moths  round  a  lamp. 
Trembling  figures  handed  up  letters  on  to  the  sill 
for  approval — pitiful  little  scrawls  on  blue  paper 
addressed  to  the  Queen,  to  judges,  to  the  dead,  to 
the  Almighty.  A  score  of  fixed,  unexpressive  eyes 
met  mine  ;  a  dozen  chanting  voices  rose  up  together. 
All  spoke  with  a  set,  formal  utterance,  as  if  of  a 
rehearsed  speech.  One  doomed  superintendent, 
and  doctors,  and  keepers  for  a  set  of  murderous 
liars.  Another  besought  them  abjectly  not  to  run 
needles  into  his  eyes.  A  pair  of  pale-blue  eyes  met 
mine  out  of  the  face  of  a  St.  John:  "My  name  is  T. 
Perkins,  and  I  have  been  murdered  here,  by  those 
that  know  not  what  they  do,  because  they  have 
ether  in  their  heads,  for  Christ's  sake."  As  we 
turned  to  go  there  came  a  hoarse  whisper  from  a 
burly  black-browed  man :  "I  give  you  warning,  he 
has  condemned  us  all  to  death,  you  and  me  and  all 
of  us ;  but  who  he  is  I  am  not  allowed  to  say,  though 
there  are  descendants  of  his  not  a  hundred  miles 
away."    Then  he  called  me  back :    "Give  him  the 


274  THINGS   SEEN 

message,  sir,  and  the  token  is" — he  bared  empty 
gums — "the  man  has  lost  his  teeth."  And  the  last 
impression  of  all  was  the  empty  blue  eyes  of  T. 
Perkins  as  he  followed  us  from  window  to  window 
and  chanted  "Rock  of  Ages." 

The  women's  side  was  much  quieter — a  series  of 
airy  rooms  with  shawled  figures  knitting  round  the 
fire,  or  white-haired  dames  dropping  pretty  little 
curtseys  and  promising  gifts  of  kittens.  Many  had 
decorated  their  rooms  with  little  boxes,  and  flowers, 
and  cards,  and  pictures  on  the  wall.  They  have 
their  laundry  and  their  ballroom;  nearly  all  were 
very  peaceful  and  contented.  Yet  there  were  two 
or  three  not  less  pathetic  than  the  men — the  new 
inmate  who  feigned  to  be  occupied  W'ith  her  bed 
lest  a  stranger  should  notice  her,  the  idiot  wench 
who  stood  grinning,  opening  and  shutting  her 
hands,  the  old  woman  who  pleaded  hard  to  be  al- 
lowed to  go  to  the  annual  entertainment — "because 
I've  not  been  now,  doctor,  for  so  very  many  years." 

When  we  came  out  the  sun  was  sloping  down  to 
the  fir-woods,  and  it  was  getting  cold.  The  men 
were  at  work  on  their  gardens ;  one  had  had  in  half 
a  load  of  smoking  manure,  and,  with  a  friend,  was 
doing  all  he  knew  to  get  it  wheeled  out  before  dark. 
In  the  dusk  it  might  have  been  an  allotment  field. 
But  my  mind  dwelt  on  another  glimpse  I  had  had 
of  the  bad  court  from  above.  One  old  man,  with 
floating  grey  beard,  was  walking  about  playing  on  a 
child's  fiddle.  Another,  very  old  and  with  the  tooth- 
less brainless  grin  of  a  baby,  was  walking  swiftly 


"DURING  HER  MAJESTY'S  PLEASURE"  275 

to  and  fro  making  with  his  hands  the  motion  of  a 
juggler  playing  with  knives.  Another — he,  too, 
grey-headed — had  put  on  a  red  handkerchief  like  an 
apron  ;  he  stood  facing  a  dead  wall,  and  at  regular 
intervals  he  gave  a  little  skip  like  a  girl  about  to 
slide.  A  pause,  a  skip ;  a  pause,  a  skip — without 
rest  and  without  variation.  And  not  one  out  of 
half  a  hundred  took  any  heed  of  any  other. 


II. 


Under  a  dead  sky  and  a  sullen  fog,  which  the 
thin  biting  wind  could  not  dispel.  Wormwood 
Scrubs  raised  its  cluster  of  towers  and  chimneys 
with  rather  a  forced  and  elaborate  cheerfulness. 
The  outline  is  more  broken  and  more  decorative 
than  you  would  expect  in  a  prison  ;  it  looks  as  if  it 
were  trying  to  make-believe  that  it  is  something 
more  cheerful.  But  when  you  get  nearer,  walking 
through  the  wilderness  of  football-grounds,  which 
is  the  only  other  feature  of  the  landscape,  the  domi- 
nant impression  is  the  lower  and  outside  walls — 
high,  hard,  and  bare,  they  make  a  grim  enough 
contrast  to  the  well-meaning  ornament  above. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  gate  three  prisoners 
were  mending  the  road — one  old  man  and  two  mid- 
dle-aged. Their  clothes  were  yellow — the  yellow  of 
sackcloth^ — sprigged  with  a  broad-arrow  here  and 
there.  Their  caps,  a  kind  of  cross  between  a  pastry- 
cook's and  a  Glengarry,  bore  a  red  star.  To  the 
three  prisoners  there  were  two  warders :  unostenta- 


2^6  THINGS   SEEN 

tiously,  but  surely,  they  followed  each  movement 
with  the  pick  or  shovel,  and  never  seemed  to  leave 
a  couple  of  yards  between  themselves  and  their 
men. 

The  front  of  the  prison  is  the  warders'  quarters — 
pleasant  enough,  with  creepers  hanging  down  over 
the  windows,  and  children's  faces  looking  through. 
Here  a  couple  more  prisoners  were  nailing  up  the 
creepers,  with  again  a  warder's  eye  on  every  move- 
ment and  a  second  following  them  at  a  distance. 
To  get  into  the  prison  is  only  one  degree  less  diffi- 
cult than  to  get  out.  You  can  ring  at  the  bell  easily 
enough,  and  the  door  opens ;  then  you  find  yourself 
under  an  arch,  a  sort  of  lodge  on  one  side  and  a 
heavily-barred  gate  blocking  it  at  the  inner  end. 
Through  the  bars  there  faces  you  the  white  chapel, 
■ — I  have  seen  many  far  more  forbidding  and  far  less 
graceful.  In  front  of  it  another  sackcloth  figure 
was  weeding  the  gravel  walk,  with  yet  another 
warder  standing  over  him  about  six  inches  dis- 
tant. At  this  point  you  must  show  your  credentials, 
and  thenceforth  the  little  paper  from  the  Home 
Office  will  never  leave  the  hand  of  the  officer  who 
takes  charge  of  you.  And  in  the  room  where  you 
wait  awhile,  along  with  plans  and  regulations  on  the 
wall,  the  eye  falls  particularly  on  a  list — "Twelve 
revolvers,  three  ditto,  twelve  carbines,  ammunition," 
and  the  like. 

Up  to  now  the  impression  of  Her  Majesty's  prison 
is  stark  enough.  But  when  you  find  yourself  in 
charge  of  an  officer — spectacled,  courteous,  intelli- 


"DURING  HER  MAJESTY'S  PLEASURE"  2.-/^ 

gent,  with  nothing  of  the  jailor  about  him  but  the 
chain  at  his  belt,  of  which  the  other  end  is  a  key 
— and  when  you  begin  to  go  round  department  after 
department,  the  first  impression  is  washed  out  al- 
most entirely.  You  never  supposed  that  a  prison 
would  be  light  and  airy,  healthy  and  even  cheerful  ? 
Well,  Wormwood  Scrubs  is  all  of  these.  You  go  into 
the  first  hall,  and  in  a  moment  you  might  be  in  a 
model  lodging-house,  only  cleaner,  better  kept,  with 
more  industrious  inhabitants.  It  is  a  long,  narrow, 
lofty  court,  four-storeyed  ;  glass  skylights  at  the  top 
and  feathery  iron  rails  and  staircases  fill  you  with  a 
sense  of  light  and  air.  On  this  nipping  day  it  is 
quite  warm.  On  either  side  rise  up  the  tiers  of 
cells.  Warders  and  prisoners  are  standing  about 
on  the  floor  working,  but  here  the  warders  seem 
less  like  slave-drivers,  as  they  did  outside,  than  in- 
telligent foremen  directing  willing  hands. 

You  go  into  a  cell.  The  prisoner  has  cleansed  it 
himself,  and  it  is  spotless.  His  floor  is  like  the 
deck  of  a  man-of-war,  and  you  never  saw  better 
polished  tin  in  a  tinsmith's  than  his  drinking-cup, 
washing-bowl,  and  other  vessels.  It  is  not  large, 
but  it  is  lofty  for  its  size ;  two  ventilators  let  air 
in  and  out,  and  a  grating  lets  in  heat.  Against  the 
w^all  leans  the  man's  bed — deal  planks  raised  a  few 
inches  above  the  floor  with  a  rough  mattress,  per- 
haps three  inches  thick,  and  half-a-dozen  blankets. 
This  man  is  getting  to  the  end  of  his  time.  At  first 
there  is  no  mattress,  and  certainly  the  planks  are 
hard — only  there  are  many  thousands  of  honest 


278  THINGS   SEEN 

men  in  this  country  who  have  slept  as  hard  for 
weeks  together,  and  not  near  so  clean.  The  other 
furniture  is  a  small  table,  coming  out  bracket-wise 
from  the  wall,  and  a  small  wooden  stool.  On  a 
shelf  in  the  corner  are  the  man's  books :  every 
prisoner  can  have  out  one  library  book  at  a  time, 
and  devotional  books  besides ;  this  prisoner  is  a 
Jew,  and  has  half-a-dozen,  English  and  Hebrew. 
And  finally — imagine  it,  O  law-abiding  citizen ! — 
there  is  an  electric  bell.  When  the  criminal  wants 
attention  he  presses  the  button ;  his  number  appears 
outside  on  a  bracket,  and  the  warder  answers  his 
bell. 

As  you  pass  from  one  part  of  the  prison  to  an- 
other you  notice  that  most  of  the  doors  are  not 
solid,  but  of  open  iron  bars :  it  maintains  the  sense 
of  air,  and  almost  gives  the  lie  to  the  word  confine- 
ment. You  go  into  the  tailoring  shop,  the  boot 
shop,  the  smiths'  shop,  the  carpenters'  shop.  The 
w^orkshops  in  Portsmouth  Dockyard  are  not  half  so 
comfortable  and  healthy.  Here  is  the  bakery,  with 
convicts  kneading  dough ;  here  the  kitchen,  with 
a  law-breaker  making  a  rice-pudding  for  a  sick 
fellow.  Others  are  at  work  on  navy  hammocks, 
Post  Office  bags,  coal-bags  for  Her  Majesty's  fleet. 
The  work  of  the  prison  is  wholly  done  inside  itself 
by  its  OAvn  labour ;  but  nothing  is  sent  out  except 
for  government  departments, — no  competition  with 
honest  trade.  Every  man  is  set  to  his  own  trade :  if 
he  knows  none,  he  can  get  the  chance  to  learn. 

The  chapel  is  as  free  and  graceful  inside  as  out- 


"DURING  HER  MAJESTY'S  PLEASURE"  279 

side.  The  floor  of  it  is  sunk ;  women  sit  in  front, 
and  then  behind  them  is  a  screen,  just  so  high  that 
the  men  can  see  the  pulpit  without  being  able  to 
see  the  women.  There  is  a  little  font — "We  use  it 
sometimes,  even  here,"  says  my  officer,  with  pride. 
The  chapel  is  being  redecorated — of  course  by 
prisoners ;  they  work  as  cheerfully  and  as  well  as 
everybody  else,  here.  The  hospital  is  like  every- 
thing else — a  model  of  neatness,  cleanliness,  and 
order.  There  is  no  suspicion  of  overcrowding,  and 
the  half-dozen  men  sitting  about  the  ward — nobody 
is  very  ill — can  hardly  have  seen  such  comfortable 
quarters  in  their  lives  before.  Only  a  pace  or  two 
down  the  next  corridor  a  round-faced,  open-eyed 
boy^ — how  came  he  into  the  sackcloth  livery? — is 
looking  intently  through  a  grating.  And  inside 
there  paces  restlessly  and  incessantly  round  and 
round  the  cell  a  man,  who  seems  to  have  no  arms 
— his  jacket  comes  tight  down  outside  them,  and 
pins  them  to  his  side.  He  has  a  mild,  fair-bearded 
face,  but  his  gentle  eyes  look  at  you  without  seeing 
you — he  has  attempted  suicide  four  times. 

There  are  at  work  here  the  two  guiding  principles 
of  modern  criminology — the  differentiation  of  pris- 
oners and  the  abolition  of  useless  work.  xA.s  the 
convicts  march  round  and  round  the  oval  exercise- 
grounds  you  notice  that  some  bear  red  stars  on  cap 
and  tunic :  these  are  first  offenders.  And  the  con- 
victs proper — the  penal  servitude  men,  that  is — 
exercise  by  themselves.  They  alone  wear  knicker- 
bockers and  stockings;  they  alone  are  shaved.    I 


28o  THINGS    SEEN 

only  looked  in  at  their  yard  for  a  moment,  but  there 
seemed  a  sullen  desperation  on  their  coarse  faces 
that  made  the  short-sentence  men  look  very  happy. 
Another  point  of  difiference  is  that  a  man  is  more 
and  more  leniently  treated  as  he  draws  to  the  end  of 
his  time.  As  for  useless  work,  oakum,  for  which 
there  is  no  longer  any  commercial  demand  to  speak 
of,  has  almost  entirely  disappeared  from  the  Scrubs. 
At  the  beginning-  of  a  man's  term  he  is  put  in  a  cell 
with  a  crank  to  turn;  it  is  like  a  chaff-cutter,  only 
rather  heavier  to  handle :  certainly  10,000  revolu- 
tions is  a  good,  though  far  from  excessive,  day's 
work.  Short  of  this,  all  labour  has  its  definite,  com- 
prehensible end.  And  especially  by  doing  the  work 
of  the  prison — their  own  work,  that  is — are  the  in- 
mates trained  to  understand  the  necessity  and  dig- 
nity of  labour  and  allowed  to  take  an  interest  in  it. 

Then,  why  not  all  be  convicts?  To  be  cockered 
in  a  model  lodging-house,  dry,  warm,  well-fed,  well- 
trained  physically,  with  a  book  from  the  circulating 
library — the  wonder  is  that  our  poor  do  not  contrive 
to  spend  all  their  lives  in  quarters  so  attractive.  The 
cell  for  the  violent  is  perfectly  comfortable,  except 
that  it  has  no  furniture  to  smash ;  the  dark  cell  is 
not  dark ;  the  very  cat  is  a  puny  little  whip,  and  can 
only  be  given  on  a  magistrate's  order  at  that.  Why 
not  all  seek  Her  Majesty's  hospitality  at  the  sign  of 
the  Scrubs? 

Well — the  doors.  That  is  the  only  thing  against 
it.  The  whole  place  is  a  chess-board  of  doors — and 
every  door  is  locked.    There  is  the  chain  at  every 


"DURING  HER  MAJESTY'S  PLEASURE"  281 

warder's  belt,  and  the  clash  of  the  turning  key  every 
ten  yards  of  your  journey.  Bars  that  you  can  see 
through  are  very  well — only  when  you  can't  go 
through  it  would  be  almost  better  not  to  see.  A 
well-regulated  life  is  the  only  happy  one — only  you 
would  sooner  regulate  it  for  yourself.  The  clash  of 
the  locks  takes  root  in  your  ears  before  you  have 
gone  half  round.  And  it  is  worth  going  out  again 
out  of  the  warmth  and  light  into  the  fog  and  ice- 
edged  wind  again  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  last 
clang  and  clatter  behind,  and  not  in  front  of  you. 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  STORM.^ 

For  the  first  moment  Ingatestone  seemed  just  like 
all  othei  Essex  stations  along  the  line  from  London. 
Coal-trucks  on  the  siding,  meadows  and  trees,  a 
governess-car  with  a  parson  in  a  muffler,  and  a  girl 
in  shirt  and  sailor  hat — it  was  just  the  ordinary- 
English  country  station.  And  yet  there  was  some- 
thing queer  about  it — something  that  ought  not  to 
be.    What  was  it  ? 

There  seemed  to  be  a  suggestion  of  November 
somehow  in  the  midsummer  luxuriance.  What 
could  it  be?  The  trees!  Yes;  what  was  wrong 
with  the  trees  ?  They  were  all  leafless,  or  next  thing 
to  it.  They  looked  as  if  they  had  been  very  badly 
blighted,  or  else,  as  I  say,  as  if  November  had  some- 
how suddenly  intruded  upon  midsummer.  They 
were  leafless,  yellow,  with  branches  broken  down, 
and  with  dead  leaves  blown  into  heaps  by  the  road- 
side. That  unearthly  sight  in  the  middle  of  a  shin- 
ing July  day — that  was  the  footprint  of  the  great 
storm. 

Jogging  along  in  a  dogcart  behind  a  sleepy  brown 
mare,  and  beside  a  sleepy  brown  inhabitant,  I  began 
to  make  inquiries  about  it.  It  must  have  been  one 
of  the  most  astounding  calamities  that  ever  fell 
without  warning  on  a  quiet  village.     He  supposed 

'  Daily  Mail,  July  7,  1897. 

283 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  STORM      283 

it  were ;  but  he  hadn't  seen  it  himself.  He  was  at 
Great  Something,  nine  miles  away,  and  he  hadn't 
seen  a  trace  of  it.  At  Little  Something,  a  mile 
nearer,  they  had  had  very  heavy  rain,  but  no  hail. 
Where  we  were  going  to  they  had  had  the  hail. 
We  should  soon  come  to  a  farm  where  a  tree  had 
come  down  through  the  roof  into  the  farmer's  bed- 
room. "A  hard-working  man  he  is,  too,"  and  I 
recognised  him  from  the  description  as  the  hero  of 
many  newspaper  articles  already. 

Certainly  we  were  coming  to  where  they  had  had 
the  hail.  On  the  near  side  of  the  road  was  a  thick 
grove  of  trees — oaks,  elms,  Scotch  firs,  every  sort. 
They  had  had  the  wind  unquestionably :  here  was 
a  branch  snapped  off  clean,  here  another  torn  pain- 
fully from  the  tough  trunk  and  swinging  from  a 
gaping  white  wound,  there  was  a  tree  ripped  up  by 
the  roots  and  flung  into  the  hedge.  But  it  was  not 
these  wind-wounds  that  gave  the  air  of  chilly  deso- 
lation to  the  whole  country.  It  was  the  leaves  sliced 
ofif  as  with  a  storm  of  bullets — the  naked  trees  un- 
der the  brilliant  sun,  the  litter  of  leaves  beneath 
them  four  months  before  their  time.  Summer  had 
suddenly  departed  from  this  country,  and  I  shiv- 
ered. 

Perhaps  that  was  sentimental.  But  w'hen  we 
came  to  the  land  of  the  hard-working  man  there 
was  a  deal  more  than  sentiment  to  turn  the  heart 
cold.  The  accommodation  road  w^as  so  barricaded 
with  fallen  branches  that  we  had  to  drive  across  the 
pastures.    We  came  to  the  farmhouse.    On  one  side 


284  THINGS   SEEN 

of  it  every  pane  of  glass  was  smashed  in.  The 
barn  had  lost  every  tile ;  its  roof  was  only  a  cobweb 
of  broken  lattices,  and  the  fragments  of  the  broken 
tiles  were  heaped  up  like  old  crockery  all  round  it. 
The  house  itself  was  almost  as  naked,  and  its  back 
was  broken  where  the  tree  had  come  down  on  it. 
On  the  right  were  two  fields.  One  had  been  full  of 
beans  and  the  other  of  corn,  but  to-day  the  beans 
were  a  fallow  and  the  corn  was  stubble. 

In  another  field  a  torn  disconsolate  potato  raised 
its  head  here  and  there  out  of  the  ruin.  But  where 
there  had  been  mangold  there  was  nothing — simply 
nothing  at  all.  You  could  just  trace  the  lines  of  the 
furrows,  washed  almost  level  by  the  rain.  But  for 
any  trace  of  a  crop,  the  field  might  never  have  been 
touched  since  last  Michaelmas.  It  goes  without 
saying  that  the  hard-working  farmer  is  quite  ruined. 

As  we  jogged  on  it  became  apparent  that  fallen 
trees  had  been  sawn  into  lengths  and  cleared  off  the 
road ;  otherwise  we  should  never  have  been  able  to 
drive  along  the  road  at  all.  Whenever  we  turned  a 
corner  a  new  bit  of  destruction  came  in  sight. 
Some  of  the  windows  had  been  put  in  again,  otners 
were  still  staring  empty.  It  had  been  a  good  time, 
remarked  my  friend,  with  a  resolute  effort  to  look 
on  the  bright  side  of  things,  for  the  glaziers.  Day 
and  night,  Sunday  and  week-day,  they  had  had  as 
much  work  as  they  cared  to  lay  putty  to.  But 
despite  that  cheering  fact,  the  drive  got  glummer 
and  glummer.  Tiles,  thatch,  or  slates,  every  roof 
seemed  to  have  fared  the  same.     Fences  sprawled 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  STORM      285 

all  over  the  road,  and  the  nettles  were  cut  down  as 
with  a  scythe.  Here  was  a  yawning  gap  in  a  fence ; 
here  a  rough  sheep-hurdle  stuffed  in  to  make  a 
provisional  join  where  a  big  elm  had  smashed  the 
elegant  railing.  Fowls  and  ducks,  pheasants  and 
partridges,  were  dead  by  the  score.  Every  bit  of 
glass  was  ground  to  powder,  of  course ;  every  bit 
of  growth  under  it  bruised  to  pulp.  The  Ingate- 
stone  Show  was  just  coming  on,  and  very  many 
people  were  growing  something  for  it  under  glass 
— something  they  had  taken  trouble  with,  going  in 
to  the  little  hothouse  every  hour  to  see  how  it  was 
getting  on.  There  will  be  no  show  at  Ingatestone 
this  season. 

Where  there  had  been  hay  ready  for  cutting 
there  was  now  only  rather  ragged  pasture,  that 
looked  as  if  it  had  not  been  properly  beaten  down. 
It  was  useless  to  try  to  cut  the  remnants  with  the 
machine,  though  here  and  there  they  were  trying 
to  save  a  little  with  the  scythe.  But  it  was  heart- 
breaking work — just  a  few  wisps  of  grass  here  and 
there  mixed  with  a  good  many  weeds ;  the  only 
thing  that  had  quite  resisted  the  storm  was  the 
thistles.  The  corn  was  beyond  even  this  piteous 
consolation.  The  hail  had  cut  it  off  short  at  the 
ground ;  it  was  not  possible  to  save  even  the  straw. 
As  for  the  roots,  it  was  usually  quite  impossible  to 
guess  even  what  they  had  been. 

Still,  here  and  there,  and  almost  everywhere  amid 
the  wicked  ravages  of  Nature,  you  could  see  in- 
domitable man  at  work  again. 


286  THINGS   SEEN 

They  were  beginning  already  to  do  what  could  be 
done.  At  a  gentleman's  house  they  were  hoisting 
up  bricks  and  tiles  to  the  roof.  As  I  watched,  a 
landau  and  pair  came  along  the  road.  A  big-nosed 
old  lady  was  looking  at  the  damage  through  a  pair 
of  lorgnettes ;  the  carriage  stopped,  and  a  footman 
went  in  with  a  card  :  how  sweet  a  thing  is  sympathy 
in  the  hour  of  adversity.  More  congenial  was  a 
farmhouse  whose  lacerated  roof  had  been  recently 
wrapped  in  rick-covers ;  the  white-haired  farmer 
and  his  three  men  were  hoeing  away  at  what  little 
v/as  left  of  the  mangolds,  as  if  they  gave  every 
promise  of  a  record  crop  and  a  fat  year  with  the 
rent  paid  and  something  put  away  in  the  bank.  And 
there  was  a  little  old  lady  driving  a  fat  old  cob  in 
an  old  park  phaeton.  A  tree  had  come  down  over 
her  fence  a  yard  behind  her  as  she  passed  by ;  yet 
here  she  was,  driving  alone,  and  flicking  up  the  cob 
along  the  drive  home  as  full  of  courage  and  char- 
acter as  ever.  Nature,  after  all,  can  make  man  very 
uncomfortable,  but  she  has  never  conquered  him 
yet. 

All  the  same,  in  some  places  there  was  nothing 
but  evidence  of  numb  despair.  "There's  an  old 
man  here ;  I  don't  know  how  much  he  didn't  reckon 
to  make  out  of  his  cherries ;"  and  here  was  his  be- 
loved white-heart  agonising  over  the  orchard, 
through  the  hedge,  and  smashing  its  limbs  to  pieces 
on  the  hard  road.  And  then,  again,  "There's  a  little 
man  here ;  he'd  just  set  up  for  himself  a  little  mar- 
ket-garden;   there's  his  bit  of  glass."     Yes,  there 


IN  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  STORM      287 

was  his  bit  of  glass — or,  rather,  there  was  his  not  a 
single  bit  of  glass;  nothing  but  twisted  frames,  and 
below  them  the  clean-stripped  stalks  of  tomatoes. 
The  little  man  had  done  nothing  to  put  things 
straight,  it  seemed.  For  he  couldn't  bring  his 
tomatoes  to  life  again,  and  how  was  he  ever  to  start 
for  himself  anew? 

So  we  drove  till  we  came  out  on  the  southward 
side  of  Ingatestone.  And  there  everything  w^as  as 
usual,  everything  as  it  should  be.  A  branch  or  two 
wrenched  ofif  now  and  again,  but  not  more  than  you 
might  see  after  many  a  hard  blow.  On  one  side  of 
the  road  wheat,  and  on  the  other  oats — splendid 
crops,  nodding  buoyantly  to  the  breeze.  Trim 
homesteads,  with  gardens  full  of  peas  and  marigolds 
and  geraniums.  And  not  half  a  mile  away  from  it 
that  cruel  devastation,  that  massacre  of  the  coun- 
try. One  taken  and  the  other  left.  Plainly  it  was 
the  visitation  of  God — but  was  it  any  easier  to  bear 
for  that? 


THE  DERBY.i 

On  the  Epsom  road  early  summer  brings  a  double 
crop.  It  is  not  so  near  the  London  blights  but  that 
chestnut  and  may  blossom  sweetly  above  the 
■hedges,  kingcups  in  the  ditches,  and  buttercups  in 
the  meadows.  Along  with  them  this  season  breeds 
products  less  clean.  Between  the  chestnut-trees, 
above  the  may,  come  out  festoons  of  grossly  yellow 
and  vermilion  posters ;  among  the  buttercups  on 
the  roadside  a  succession  of  sleepy  tramps  readjust 
battered  billycocks  over  their  eyes,  and  heave  from 
one  elbow  on  to  the  other.  Then  you  know  that 
summer  is  come  and  the  Derby  is  at  hand. 

On  the  Epsom  road  we  associate  the  Derby  with 
a  string  of  raucous  brakes  in  the  morning  and  the 
same  hideously  vocal  returning  at  night;  also  with 
entirely  supererogatory  niggers,  who  pester  us  as 
we  go  back  to  work  in  the  quiet  interval  after  din- 
ner. As  if  we  had  anything  to  waste  on  niggers, 
we  who  try  to  live  on  the  starveling  Epsom  road. 
Nevertheless,  if  we  had  eyes  to  spare  for  it,  the  days 
before  the  Derby  bring  quite  a  modern  exodus  in  a 
panorama  before  us. 

The  Monday  before  the  Epsom  Summer  Meeting 
is,  as  the  Calendar  will  tell  you,  one  of  the  rare  holi- 
days of  the  flat-racing  season.     Yet  that  day  sees 

'  Daily  Mail,  June  1897. 
288 


THE    DERBY  289 

a  procession  from  London  to  the  Downs  as  con- 
tinuous, if  not  so  thick,  as  that  of  the  Wednesday 
itself.  On  Monday  morning  I  found  one  unbroken 
string  of  vehicles  and  foot-passengers  stretched  all 
along  the  ten  miles  from  Double  Gates,  Merton, 
which  are  held  to  be  the  end  of  London,  to  the 
Grand  Stand  above  Epsom,  They  had  nothing 
directly  to  do  with  racing,  and  they  were  not  mak- 
ing holiday.  They  were  just  the  parasites — the 
swing-boat  people  and  the  Aunt-Sally  people,  the 
gipsies,  the  hawkers,  and  the  general  cadgers  that 
make  what  you  might  call  the  properties  of  the 
Derby. 

]\Iost  of  the  vehicles  were  of  the  house-van  kind 
that  you  all  know,  though  you  will  not  often  see  so 
many  of  them  together.  They  seem  rarer  than  they 
used  to  be,  and  I  should  have  hardly  thought  there 
were  so  many  left  in  England.  Yet  here  they  were 
in  scores,  plodding,  plodding  southward :  on  the 
road  their  sloping  decks  and  soot-crusted  chimneys, 
their  dark-green  or  claret-coloured  sides,  give  them 
something  of  the  air  of  vessels.  This  is  the  ship  of 
the  road,  self-contained  and  self-sufficient,  touching 
here  and  there  for  supplies,  yet  independent  of  any 
roof  or  bed  or  stable,  or  any  other  resting-place — 
the  true  automobile.  The  sky  for  your  roof-tree 
and  the  turf  for  your  pillow — how  you  envy  the  free 
mariners  of  the  road — until  you  look  at  them.  Ver- 
minous hair  matted  over  low  foreheads  and  shifting 
eyes,  arms  that  hang  forward  from  loose  shoulders 
like  an  orang-outang's,  toeless  and  heelless  boots, 


290  THINGS   SEEN 

every  man  and  woman  and  child  in  shapeless  clothes 
that  obviously  were  made  for  somebody  else — no : 
I  would  not  be  a  van-dweller  after  all. 

The  van  carries  its  all  with  it:  the  smoke  from 
the  funnel  says  they  are  cooking  dinner ;  lashed  to 
a  tailboard  is  the  goat  that  gives  the  milk  for  tea; 
hung  out  in  front  the  caged  linnet  that  furnishes 
the  band  during  meals.  Mixed  up  with  these  go 
parties  who  travel  much  lighter — a  coaster-can, 
laden  with  what  look  like  bean-sticks  and  a  length 
or  two  of  canvas  :  that  is  to  make  a  shelter  wherein 
the  family  will  spend  the  week.  Then  there  are 
those  who  travel  lighter  still — the  foot-passengers, 
some  in  droves  of  men  and  women  together,  their 
sole  baggage  a  few  ponies,  seemingly  ignorant  of 
the  difference  between  a  summer  and  winter  coat; 
some  all  alone,  and  with  no  more  baggage  than  the 
hands  in  their  pockets.  They  have  no  trade  goods, 
these  slouching  scarecrows,  no  accomplishments, 
no  qualification  at  all  for  work,  and  no  intention 
in  the  world  of  doing  it.  Yet  here  they  are  in  their 
thousands,  shuffling  towards  the  Derby,  to  beg,  to 
borrow,  to  steal — all  drawn  by  the  lodestar  of  that 
hope  of  getting  money  without  working  for  it, 
which  is  inseparable  from  the  glorious  turf. 

You  do  not  fall  exactly  in  love  with  the  British 
turf  on  the  Epsom  road  the  day  before  the  Derby 
meeting.  And  when  you  get  up  on  to  the  Downs 
you  love  it  still  less.  You  see  the  lower  side  of  it, 
which  is  to  the  brilliancy  and  excitement  of  the  day 
itself  as  loaded  beer  is  to  champagne,  or  the  shaggy 


THE    DERBY  291 

galumphing  gipsy  pony  to  the  shining  thorough- 
bred. When  you  get  on  tO'  the  Downs  you  should 
have  drawn  definitely  clear  of  London  and  all  about 
it.  Behind  and  below  you  trees  and  meadows, 
farms  and  villages,  welter  in  black  murk:  the  filthy 
exhalations  of  London  climb  up  the  sky  like  a  wall. 
Before  you  stretches  of  rolling  grass  dip  down  to 
hollows,  rise  up  to  brows,  all  furred  with  rich  green 
plantation;  the  sky  is  wistfully  blue,  hoping  that 
the  sunlight  will  tarry  a  little  now  it  has  come  at 
last.  The  breeze  that  bowls  over  the  Downs  you 
can  feel  in  the  very  bottom  of  your  lungs,  cleaning 
your  blood.  As  you  begin  to  rejoice  in  all  this, 
there  rises  into  your  vision  the  Grand  Stand  and 
the  racecourse  and  all  the  tawdry  vulgarities  that 
have  sprung  up  in  a  night  about  them.  London 
looks  to  have  oozed  out  and  laid  a  patch  of  its 
slimy  self  over  the  beginning  of  the  clean  country. 

Already  a  village  of  vans  has  sat  down  on  the 
gorse-bushes.  At  rest  the  vans  lose  their  sugges- 
tion of  ships.  You  notice,  rather,  the  clean  window 
curtains,  and  begin  to  think  you  could  be  a  gipsy 
after  all.  Having  arrived  and  got  their  pitches, 
half  of  them  are  making  holiday  before  the  work- 
ing days  begin' — a  simple  sort  of  holiday,  that  con- 
sists, for  the  young,  the  touzle-haired,  and  bare- 
legged, in  pulling  each  other  aimlessly  over  the 
turf,  but  for  the  staider  elders  in  lying  down  to  sleep 
in  the  sun.  You  are  reminded  that  the  gipsy  is  a 
true  oriental  in  this,  that  he  has  no  bedtime. 

But  we  must  not  harrow  ourselves  unduly.    The 


292  THINGS    SEEN 

gipsy  is  happy  enough  in  his  dirt ;  and  if  you  don't 
lil<e  it,  there  are  comely  sights  on  Epsom  Downs, 
even  before  the  Derby.  Along  with  the  gipsies  have 
come  the  advanced-guard  of  the  costers — a  very 
different  class.  The  coster  is  a  happy-go-lucky 
fellow,  and  on  occasion  blasphemous ;  but  he  is 
also  quick,  ready,  skilled  in  men,  and  especially  in- 
dependent. On  an  occasion  like  this,  in  the  coun- 
try, where  good  business  is  to  be  combined  with 
pleasure,  his  womankind  are  a  sight  worth  coming 
so  far  to  see.  They  are  neither  shabby  nor  gaudy : 
their  gowns  and  hats  are  black,  their  adornments 
are  no  more  than  clear  eyes  and  yet  clearer  weath- 
er-ripened cheeks,  and  aprons  spotlessly  white  and 
so  stiffly  starched  that  they  could  stand  by  them- 
selves. 

The  sight  of  two  such,  walking  casually  among 
the  streets  of  vans  and  shock-headed  viragoes, 
cheerfully  andi  hopelessly  asking  if  anybody  has 
seen  a  young  feller  with  a  pony-cart  pass  that  way, 
is  enough  to  sweeten  the  whole  scene  for  at  least  a 
moment.  But  when  you  look  at  it  again,  you  may 
love  horses  and  racing  as  much  as  you  like,  but 
your  heart  sinks.  You  see  all  the  naked  apparatus 
of  pleasure,  and  it  looks  as  a  circus  might  at  noon- 
day, or  a  fashionable  beauty  without  her  paint  and 
powder.  To-morrow  it  may  not  be  beautiful,  but 
at  least  it  will  be  crowded,  merry,  roaring  with  en- 
joyment, fulfilling  its  purpose  in  life.  To-day  the 
swings  and  merry-go-rounds  are  gaunt  skeletons 
being  patched  together,  or  heaps  of  garish  yellow 


THE    DERBY  293 

and  vermilion  sticks  and  boards  strewn  on  the 
desecrated  green.  The  refreshment-booths  are 
heaps  of  forms  and  trestles  littered  with  coarse 
crockery.  The  whole  place  is  covered  with  loiter- 
ing scallywags,  touts  and  tramps  and  beggars,  the 
scum  of  England. 

And  the  beer !  Beer  is  good,  but  to  see  it  hauled 
up  the  day  before,  in  cold  blood,  is  all  but  to  turn 
teetotaller.  Drays  and  drays  and  drays  of  it — beer 
arriving,  beer  disembarking,  barrels  of  beer  ranged 
in  every  tent,  empty  drays  going  back  for  more. 
Some  of  the  loafers  have  begun  on  it  already,  and 
stagger  instead  of  shuffling :  you  wonder  what  they 
will  be  like  by  Oaks  night. 

The  whole  thing  is  altogether  too  naked,  you 
feel :  it  wants  draping  into  decency.  When  you 
go  down  into  Epsom  you  find  it  full  of  horse-faced 
stable-lads  out  of  work,  who  ask  you  whether  by 
any  chance  you  have  a  steeplechaser  that  wants 
schooling,  and,  if  not,  whether  you  have  a  shilling. 
Outside  the  station  the  street  is  double-lined  with 
lounging  unemployed,  ostensibly  waiting  to  carry 
visionary  bags.  By  every  train  pour  in  blue- 
chinned,  hungry-faced  bookmakers.  The  tail  of 
yellow  brakes  is  already  standing  to  take  to-mor- 
row's crowds  up  to  the  course.  A  steady  stream 
of  horses,  that  have  left  coaches  ready  in  their 
places  in  the  enclosure  or  vans  immobile  for  the 
week,  plod  wearily  back  for  more. 

This  is  not  a  sermon :  I  could  write  you  just  as 
forbidding  a  description  of  the  eve  of  a  first  night, 


294  THINGS   SEEN 

or  a  Church  Congress,  or  a  Handel  Festival,  or 
the  places  where  they  make  the  dresses  for  a  fancy 
ball.  When  it  is  dressed  and  at  work  it  will  look 
quite  different,  only  it  is  never  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate the  raw  material  of  pleasure. 

II. 

What  a  day !  We  could  tell  in  an  instant  that  it 
would  be  glorious  as  soon  as  we  put  our  heads  out- 
side the  door  on  to  the  Epsom  road. 

We  got  in  and  up  ostentatiously,  half  the  house- 
hold)— the  other  half  sorrowed  at  home,  only  half 
believing  that  there  will  be  another  Derby  next 
year — and  went  ofif  with  the  blessed  knowledge  that 
all  the  neighbours  saw  us  go.  They  were  all  on 
the  pavements,  or  at  their  windows,  or  the  doors  of 
their  shops.  They  were  not  going,  it  is  true,  but 
for  all  that  they  were  to  enjoy  their  day  watching 
the  other  people.  That  is  the  beauty  of  Derby  Day, 
especially  on  the  Epsom  road :  it  is  of  universal 
enjoyment — the  great  festival  of  all  the  cockney 
year. 

The  costers,  who  inhabit  our  quarter  in  great 
strength,  were  going  too.  Oh  yes,  they  were  go- 
ing— old  man  and  old  woman  and  kids  and  pony 
and  moke.  We  started  early :  the  coaches  and 
brakes  had  not  yet  got  so  far  from  Piccadilly,  and 
the  road  belonged — as  indeed  it  mostly  belongs  all 
Derby  Day — to  the  poor.  But  none  of  them — not 
the  tradesman  in  his  market-cart  lined  with  Wind- 


THE    DERBY  295 

sor  chairs,  not  even  the  fair  ladies  you  divine  inside 
the  darkHng  furniture-vans — can  touch  the  coster. 

He  is  the  only  man  of  his  class  who  always  takes 
the  whole  family  on  the  jaunt,  and  they  are  the  only 
kind  of  family  that  knows  how  to  turn  itself  out. 
The  well-fed  Polly  or  Neddy  in  the  shafts,  the  har- 
ness picked  out  with  ribbons  or  bunches  of  lilac, 
the  long,  new-painted,  highly-variegated  cart  that 
balances  on  its  axletree  like  a  liner  at  sea,  the  old 
man's  twinkling  eyes  and  weather-reddened  cheeks, 
the  old  woman  in  crimson  velvet  or  lilac  silk  sitting 
so  bolt  upright,  so  queenly  under  her  diadem  of 
feathers,  the  tiny  boys  in  their  square-tailed  grey 
coats  and  their  square  capable  faces, — oh  yes,  give 
me  the  coster  on  Derby  Day.  There  is  nothing 
like  him  outside  London,  and  nothing  inside  either. 

We  roll  out  between  the  familiar  meadows.  On 
the  roadside  rest  foot-passengers ;  a  steady  stream 
of  them  sets  all  along  the  road,  the  British  working 
man  walking  down.  He  looks  twice  the  man  he 
does  on  other  days — striding  along,  holding  himself 
upright,  smoking  his  old  pipe.  Who  grudges  him 
the  buttercups  and  the  sweet  hawthorn  and  the 
cloudless  blue — already  filtered  so  clean  from  the 
reek  of  London  ?    What  a  day  ! 

North  Cheam,  the  Queen  Victoria's  Head,  Ewell, 
Epsom  —  every  soul  on  the  pavements  —  Ashley 
Road — and  we  are  there  already.  Just  in  time  to 
get  the  carriage  into  the  front  row,  and  get  two 
good  hours  from  the  first  race.  But  that  is  all  the 
better.    There  are  those  among  us  who  have  never 


296  THINGS   SEEN 

seen  a  bookmaker,  and  wonder  why  showers  of 
leaflets  drop  from  a  still  sky :  two  hours  fly  as  ten 
minutes  in  such  initiations.  But  meanwhile,  and 
from  the  first  moment  to  the  last,  what  a  sight ! 

The  day  before  the  meeting  the  course  was  an 
abomination,  an  outrage  on  the  clear  sky  and  the 
lift  of  the  Downs  and  the  far-off  blotches  of  wood- 
land. But  to-day  London  has  come  out  and  draped 
the  indecency,  and  it  is  all  pure  holiday.  The 
shabby  vans  and  shaggy  ponies  and  shock-headed 
women  and  children  now  fall  into  their  proper 
places  as  the  framework  of  the  world's  greatest  fair. 
The  Hill,  which  on  Monday  was  a  stack  of  tawdry 
bits  of  timber  and  dirty  canvas,  to-day,  upholstered 
with  people,  has  become  a  very  palace  of  pleasure. 
It  stands  up  over  against  you  with  the  white  and 
blue  and  scarlet  signs  of  the  silver  ring,  the  red 
and  yellow  of  the  swings  and  merry-go-rounds ; 
the  colours  are  just  as  garish  as  they  ever  were, 
but  now  they  are  only  the  embroidery  on  a  spread- 
ing cloak  of  black-coated  Londoners. 

You  might  think  that  the  whole  city  had  mi- 
grated on  to  the  Downs.  You  wonder  what  Lon- 
don is  like  at  this  moment :  is  it  possible  that  many 
poor  wretches  are  left  there  breathing  the  air 
through  that  respirator  of  smoke?  Here,  although 
the  dust  is  in  your  nostrils,  you  still  smell  the  may 
through  it.  At  least,  there  are  thousands  on  thous- 
ands enjoying  that  smell  to-day,  and  you  rejoice; 
for  the  Derby  is  one  of  those  blessed  days  when 
everybody  wants  everybody  to  enjoy  himself. 


THE   DERBY  297 

By  now  the  stands  opposite  us  are  black  with 
people ;  the  whole  course  is  black  as  far  as  Tatten- 
ham  Corner,  and  beyond ;  wherever  you  look  is  a 
thick  black  carpet  pricked  with  myriads  of  pin- 
point faces.  It  is  a  huge  city,  almost  a  nation  in 
itself.  Only  this  is  a  city  where  everybody  can  see 
the  sky' — a  whole  hemisphere  of  it:  we  may  thank 
the  wisdom  of  our  fathers  for  giving  London  an 
institution  like  the  Derby.  The  Prince  of  Wales 
is  under  the  clock  under  the  royal  standard ;  the 
dustman  is  on  the  course  below,  brushing  against 
the  frock-coat  of  a  Cabinet  Minister.  And  they 
are  all  enjoying  themselves,  and  enjoying  the  en- 
joyment of  the  others. 

However,  we  came  to  see  races' — and  now  the 
limber  two-year-olds  are  stretching  their  long  legs 
in  the  canter;  a  few  minutes  and  they  come  thun- 
dering past  us  home.  Sloan  wins !  and  nobody 
grudges  it  him ;  yet,  if  it  were  an  omen !  Surely 
Providence  will  never  allow  a  French  colt  with  an 
American  rider  to  win  our  Derby !  We  lost  heavily 
on  the  first  race,  and  worse  on  the  second ;  yet  on 
the  Derby  none  of  us  really  cared  to  bet  at  all.  It 
was  almost  too  dear  and  important  an  issue  for 
betting — almost  as  bad  as  insuring  your  mother's 
life. 

Now  comes  the  bell,  and  that  ever-wonderful 
scene  of  clearing  the  course — the  black  river  that 
dries  up  in  five  minutes  at  the  hand-wave  of  a  few 
score  of  men  in  blue  coats  and  helmets.  Another 
^vait — and  here  come  the  horses.  They  walk  past, 
and  then  canter  back — Holocauste  first,  looking  a 


298  THINGS   SEEN 

bit  of  a  slug,  with  Sloan  riding  him  as  if  he  were 
a  bicycle ;  then  the  rest  of  the  shining  ones ;  and 
last  Flying  Fox,  with  what  a  reach,  what  an  all- 
conquering  stride,  and  a  man  on  his  back  that  sits 
and  has  hands  left  to  ride  with.  They  disappear, 
and  then  we  wait  and  wait  and  wait.  Time  after 
time  the  silk  jackets  break  away  behind  us  and  file 
slowly  back.  Won't  it  be  all  in  favour  of  the  slug? 
Wasn't  Flying  Fox  tearing  a  little  at  his  bit  in  the 
canter?  Quarter-past  three,  half-past — off:  no, 
false  start  again — twenty  to,  quarter  to — ah !  A 
breathless  interval,  and  there  they  sweep  over  the 
hill,  well  together.  Now  they  are  shut  out  again; 
but  now  they  are  tearing  round  the  corner.  Little 
spots  of  colour  are  sliding  down  the  hill ;  now  jerk- 
ing furiously  up  it.  Nearer  and  nearer,  bigger  and 
bigger ;  the  earth  trembles ;  the  wave  of  colour 
surges  up,  and — yellow.  Flying  Fox,  Morning  Can- 
non, by  all  that's  glorious !  Running  under  the 
whip,  with  some  of  the  fire  out  of  his  action,  but 
still  that  conquering  stride.  A  yellow  ray  across 
the  eyes — a  flash  of  the  jockey's  square  resolute 
face  as  he  looks  round  an  instant,  and  then — ah-h! 
Our  Derby  is  our  Derby  still. 

Somehow  there  seem  to  be  fewer  Frenchmen 
than  there  were  a  minute  ago.  Yet  we  can  all  spare 
a  pang  for  a  good  horse  come  to  grief  and  for  a 
plucky  rider  beaten,  who  yet  weighs  out  next  race. 
But  to  hold  up  a  horse  round  Tattenham  Corner, 
we  tell  ourselves  with  great  sageness,  you  need  to 
sit  on  his  back. 


THE    DERBY  299 

More  races  :  we  lose  our  money  quite  cheerfully, 
for  the  country  is  saved,  and  our  best  horseman  has 
won  his  Derby.  Under  the  unaccustomed  sun  we 
all  sit  and  are  happy,  till  suddenly — oh,  alas ! — the 
last  race  is  run,  and  we  must  go  home.  You  would 
say  that  this  black  garment  of  people  could  never 
be  pulled  off  the  Downs.  Coaches  and  landaus  and 
coster-carts  start  and  start  and  start ;  yet  there  isn't 
even  room  made  for  us  to  put  in  our  horses.  The 
broad  black  river  in  the  course  flows  and  flows,  but 
it  never  seems  to  get  thinner.  The  truth  is  that 
nobody  cares  to  go  away :  the  evening  air  and  the 
evening  sun  and  the  evening  scents  are  all  kisses. 

We  get  away  at  last.  It  appears  that  the  tin 
trumpet  is  this  year's  foolishness  for  coming  home, 
with  paper  sunshades  for  yourself  and — if  you  are 
a  coster  and  your  beast  is  a  friendi — for  him  also. 
When  you  have  been  to  the  Derby  the  tin  trumpet 
sounds  quite  passable.  We  observe  a  good  many 
stoppages  by  the  way.  Many  of  them  are  near 
public-houses,  certainly,  but  not  nearly  all.  The 
truth  is  that  the  Derby  is  a  day  of  days,  and  nobody 
is  in  a  hurry  to  get  it  over.  Hundreds  stop  just 
to  get  a  little  more  green  hedgerow :  the  pony  has 
a  feed,  and  they  sit  quite  happily  on  the  cooling 
grass.  It  is  not  the  racing  entirely,  and  it  is  not 
wholly  the  air  and  the  sun  and  the  green,  nor  the 
blending  of  all  classes,  nor  the  lunch,  nor  the  beer. 
It  is  all  together.  It  is  just  the  Derby — London's 
day  of  pure  enjoyment.    What  a  day ! 


THE   CESAREWITCH.i 

Cambridge  is  a  quiet  world  to  itself,  with  its  grey 
cloisters,  silent  spires,  pale  preoccupied  professors. 
Walk  fifty  yards  up  the  Cambridge  platform  and 
you  come  out  on  another  world,  as  utterly  apart 
and  to  itself,  and  utterly  different.  The  inhabitants 
of  this  world  wear  overcoats  down  to  their  heels, 
instead  of  gowns;  their  faces  are  ruddy,  or  by'r 
Lady  inclining  to  purple ;  they  are  puckered  round 
the  eyes ;  pink  cards  peep  out  of  their  pockets,  and 
sporting  newspapers  cascade  over  their  knees ;  they 
smoke  large  cigars  incessantly,  and  they  are  not 
silent.  What  they  tell  you  may  or  may  not  be  what 
they  wish  you  to  believe,  but  they  have  certainly 
no  hesitation  in  telling  it.  They  are  not  afraid  to 
talk  their  own  shop,  these  dwellers  in  the  world  of 
racing;  what  but  racing  should  a  man  talk?  Nor 
yet  are  they  afraid  of  talking  to  each  other;  the 
world  of  racing,  popularly  supposed  to  be  the  pre- 
serve of  a  corrupted  aristocracy,  is  really  a  far  more 
genuine  democracy  than  any  trade  union.  The 
precise  mannerly  gentleman  in  the  corner  of  the 
carriage  is  explaining  that  he  had  a  good  win  at 
Kempton  vv^ith  The  Nailer,  but  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  his  trial  horse  had  not  cut  it  at  the 
finish;    it  disconcerts  him  not  a  bit  that  there  is 

^  Daily   Mail,   October   14,    1897. 
300 


THE    CESAREWITCH  30I 

nobody  to  tell  the  tale  to  but  the  flashy,  h-dropping 
professional  backer.  Only  he  prefers  to  talk  of  the 
past  of  his  stable  rather  than  of  its  future.  The 
rest  take  pencils  and  make  marks  on  their  cards, 
and  little  sums  on  the  margins  of  their  newspapers, 
brows  lined  with  anxious  thought.  For  the  Cesare- 
witch  is  a  piece  of  serious  business — business  to 
be  buckled  to.  The  great  day  comes  just  as  you 
realise  that  the  flat-racing  season  will  not  last  for 
ever ;  and  if  you  are  to  come  out  on  the  right  side 
you  had  better  get  to  work  at  once.  The  air  of 
Newmarket  is  tonic  to  the  stomach  and  disinfect- 
ant in  the  lungs ;  but  it  is  plain  that  to-day  we 
are  not  going  to  Newmarket  for  the  fresh  air.  The 
Cesarewitch  is  not  a  public  holiday  like  the  Derby, 
nor  a  fashionable  reunion  like  the  Ascot  Cup.  It 
Is  hardly  to  be  called  even  sport,  any  more  than  a 
picture-sale  is  to  be  called  art.  Many  go  there  for 
enjoyment  rather  than  for  money ;  but  it  is  a  very 
specialised  form  of  enjoyment.  For  the  rest  it  is 
just  business — hard,  profit-and-loss  business. 

It  is  so  when  we  come  out,  under  the  lukewarm 
October  sun,  on  to  the  rolling  green  of  the  Heath. 
It  spreads  out,  billowing  right  and  left,  like  a  sea. 
But  every  man,  on  foot,  in  cabs,  on  horseback,  is 
heading  towards  the  grey  island  that  rises  in  the 
middle  with  white  benches  jutting  out  from  it — 
the  stands  and  the  rails.  There  the  crowd  gathers 
and  blackens — dense  at  the  centre,  thinning  at  the 
fringes.  The  Cesarewitch  course  is  like  an  island 
in  the  world  of  complex  England — once  more  a  life 


302  THINGS   SEEN 

apart  to  which  a  point  in  the  odds  is  more  than  the 
rise  in  bread,  and  the  state  of  The  Rush's  legs  more 
than  the  fortunes  of  empires.  Notice  that  there  is 
no  rowdyism  to-day,  nobody  changing  hats  with 
elect  donahs,  no  tomfoolery,  no  quarrelling,  no 
drunkenness.  The  crowd  is  small,  by  comparison, 
but  it  is  select — though  it  does  not  always  look  it. 
Everybody  has  come  on  business,  and  what  is  more, 
everybody  knows  his  business. 

Only  a  dozen  ladies  in  the  paddock — and  they 
are  calculating  their  bets,  and  wondering  what 
Manton  means  about  Jacobus.  There  are  peers, 
and  there  are  stable-boys ;  but  they  are  all  equal 
here,  and  all  serious.  They  are  not  rushing  about  to 
see  this  horse  or  that  horse ;  they  know  all  about 
them  already.  A  couple  of  two-year-olds,  their 
elaborate  clothing  and  eye-holes  suggesting  a 
diver's  dress,  are  lashing  out  in  the  true  two-year- 
old  form — lanky  skittish  beasts,  hardly  seeming  to 
feel  the  ground  under  them,  yet  with  all  sorts  of 
potentialities  of  beauty  and  power;  they  remind 
you  rather  of  misses  from  a  boarding-school.  No- 
body takes  any  notice  of  such  except  the  baby  boy 
perched  on  the  filly's  back — his  feet  don't  nearly 
reach  to  the  stirrups,  but  he  shortens  or  lengthens 
the  reins  with  the  dignity  of  one  who  is  going  to  win 
the  Derby  in  1907 — and  the  careful  lad  who  has 
got  to  keep  some  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  horse 
from  the  destruction  which  it  is  trying  to  rush 
upon.  But  never  mind  all  that;  to  business  and 
into  the  Ring. 


THE    CESAREWITCH  303 

When  you  turn  the  corner  of  the  subway  from 
the  paddock  and  begin  to  climb  the  steps,  the  noise 
of  a  furious  riot  breaks  on  you  suddenly.  Of  course 
you  have  heard  it  often  enough,  but  it  never  ceases 
to  be  a  wonder  of  nature  that  so  few  men  can 
make  so  ear-splitting  a  babel.  When  you  get  up 
the  steps  you  are  like  to  be  hurled  back  again ; 
there  is  little  enough  room  to  stroll  round  the  Ring 
on  Cesarewitch  day.  The  profession  of  bookmak- 
ing  must  be  a  prosperous  one,  even  in  these  anti- 
gambling  days  ;  else  why  are  they  so  ostentatiously 
well  nourished,  so  ostentatiously  sound  in  limb  and 
wind?  "Five  to  one  bar  one!  Ten  to  one  bar  two ! 
Evens  the  feeyuld !"  It  makes  the  unaccustomed 
head  go  round,  of  course ;  but  did  it  never  occur 
to  you  what  a  combination  of  gifts  the  bookmaker 
must  possess  to  make  a  living  at  all  ?  Look  at  the 
great  big  men  in  check  ulsters  and  cloth  caps: 
Jones  &  Brown  is  the  firm,  and  each  wears  his 
name  as  a  scarf-pin  in  the  touching  belief,  appar- 
ently, that  somebody  cares  which  is  Jones  and 
w^hich  is  Brown.  Jones  is  bellowing  the  odds  like 
a  bull.  But  all  the  time  he  has  got  to  keep  one  eye 
on  his  customers  and  another  on  the  columns  of 
figures  wherein  Brown  is  recording  the  bets,  and 
an  eye  in  the  side  of  his  head  on  the  unshaven 
little  man  in  a  broken  hat,  who  is  semaphoring 
signals  with  his  arms,  and  another  in  the  back  of 
his  head  on  the  white  flag  down  the  broad  course, 
which  will  fall  at  the  start.  Also,  he  has  got  to  hear 
his  clients  speak  over  his  own  voice,  to  catch  the 


304  THINGS   SEEN 

rival  bellow  of  old  Jim  Jacksoni — who,  surely,  must 
know  something — laying  a  point  more,  and  to  keep 
the  state  of  his  book  in  his  head  all  the  while.  A 
very  remarkable  man  is  Jones,  and  if  he  gets  my 
sovereign — and  of  course  he  does — he  deserves  it. 

"Off!"  "Unned  pound  I  name  the  winnah !" 
"Fifties  Schomberg!"  "Pullin'  Watts  out  of  the 
saddle !"  "Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,  my  son" — 
and  therewith  the  two  horses  come  thudding  past, 
and  one  jockey  is  waving  his  whip  like  a  windmill, 
and  Count  Schomberg's  resolute  stride  lengthens, 
but  slackens,  and  that's  all  over.  Say  half  a  minute 
of  fierce  excitement  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  deaf- 
ness, and  as  much  money  as  you  may  like  to  spend 
on  it — only,  who  shall  say  it  is  not  worth  it? 

Now  "On  the  Csesar-witch  I'm  betting;  win, 
and  one,  two,  three."  We  must  go  over  on  to  the 
hill  to  see  that.  The  hill  is  just  about  as  much  a 
hill  as  the  ditch  is  a  ditch,  or  the  bushes  bushes. 
To  the  profane  eye  the  hill  is  a  gentle  slope,  and 
the  ditch  a  bank,  and  of  the  bushes  the  less  said 
the  better;  yet  they  are  not  the  less  sacred  for  that. 
Gorgeous  young  men,  in  boots  you  might  shave 
in ;  ladies  in  clinging  habits ;  sharp,  clean-shaven 
trainers ;  breeched  and  gaitered  stable-boys,  even 
.sharper-faced  than  their  masters;  members  of  Par- 
liament, and  touts  out  at  the  knee, — all  stand  in  the 
keen  air  and  wait.  W^ait,  wait,  and  wait.  You  can 
imagine  what  is  happening  at  the  posti — the  two  or 
three  horses  who  don't  mean  to  wait  for  anybody ; 
the  long  line  of  brilliant  jackets,  now  advancing,  now 


THE    CESAREWITCII  305 

breaking  line  and  turning  back  again ;  the  patient 
starter  speaking  to  the  jockeys  hke  a  father  with 
"Go  back,  there,"  and  "Don't  trot  forward  now." 
Then  "Off"  again — Heaven  knows  how  everybody 
is  silent  and  solemn  in  a  moment  that  roared  so 
loud  before.  Then  another  wait.  Then  far  away  a 
little  patch  coming  nearer  —  only  coming  nearer 
slowly.  Nearer  yet,  and  now  you  can  see  they  are 
a  line  of  horses  wntli  a  streak  of  variegated  but  in- 
distinguishable colour  above  them.  Now  you  can 
see  them  like  a  charge  of  cavalry.  Not  one  a  foot 
ahead  of  another,  as  it  seems.  The  Rush !  Was 
not  that  The  Rush  drawing  out  as  they  Avere  behind 
the  Bushes  and  into  the  Dip.  A  minute,  an  hour; 
are  they  never  coming  into  sight  again  ?  Then  sud- 
denly they  flash  up — no  charge  of  cavalry  now,  but 
streaming  into  view  like  a  garden  of  many  flowers, 
all  scattered.  The  fierce  yell  comes  up  with  them  to 
the  thunderous  beat  of  the  hoof.  "The  Rush,  The 
Rush  wins !"  But  from  just  behind  "The  Rush" 
shoots  out  something  else.  A  green-and-white 
sleeve  lashing  madly,  a  turquoise-and-fawn  body 
shooting  securely  ahead  of  it.  "Merman !  Merman  ! 
Merman  !"    And  that's  over. 

The  horses  are  blowing  and  sobbing  as  the 
jockeys  slide  off  down  their  streaming  steaming 
sides.  Little  boys  with  chubby  cheeks  and  little 
boys  with  the  faces  of  wizened  old  men,  they  take 
up  their  tiny  saddles  and  go  of¥  to  the  weighing- 
room.  "Thank  you  so  much ;  and  I  do  so  hope 
you  backed  him,"  says  Mrs.  Langtry.    The  Cesare- 


3o6  THINGS   SEEN 

witch  is  run,  and  our  real  day's  work  is  done.  On 
the  Ring  has  fallen  a  great  silence.  Over  the  thous- 
ands of  faces,  fine-lined  or  coarse,  powdered  or 
pimpled,  settles  the  vague  look  of  abstraction,  of 
calculation.  Business  is  over ;  how  do  we  come 
out?  Thus  the  little  world  of  racing  and  its  little 
town  in  Cambridgeshire  has  had  its  Afridi  campaign 
and  its  shipbuilding  strike.  Its  bit  of  history  is 
made  for  to-day.  It  walks  away  pondering  over  the 
momentous  event,  with  little  disconnected  scraps 
of  talk,  such  as,  "  'E  come  up  the  'ill  well."  Every- 
body knows  who  'e  is  ;  how  could  anybody  be  think- 
ing of  anybody  else? 


TWO  HOSPITALS. 


OUT-PATIENTS'    DAY.' 


In  the  surgeon's  room  —  half  underground,  hah" 
lighted,  hardly  ventilated,  smaller  than  your  draw- 
ing-room— lounged  a  couple  of  dozen  students.  Sit- 
ting on  Windsor  chairs  or  standing  in  the  best  of 
the  light,  patient  but  listless,  half  fear,  half  hope, 
were  about  a  dozen  working  men.  Along  the  dim 
passages  leaned  half  a  dozen  more ;  beyond  in  the 
dim  waiting-hall,  sitting  on  rows  of  benches  like 
children  in  school,  were  perhaps  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred people — women  in  fringes  and  aprons,  women 
with  scraggy  babies  under  their  shawls,  dockers  in 
corduroys,  tan-faced  sailors,  Jew  tailors  in  reach- 
me-downs,  some  shepherding  pale,  bright-eyed 
children,  some  shepherding  friends  who  could  speak 
no  English.  Beyond  in  the  larger,  lighter,  medical 
waiting-hall  were  perhaps  twice  as  many  again  of 
the  same  sort.  The  place  smelt  of  helplessness  in 
all  of  its  forms,  whether  ignorance,  poverty,  or  vice, 
and  especially  disease. 

It  was  an  afternoon's  work  of  the  London  Hos- 
pital.   If  you  will  take  a  map  of  London  and  stick 
a  pin  into  the  site  of  the  hospital,  just  opposite  the 
'  Daily  Mail,  June  28,  1898. 
307 


3o8  THINGS   SEEN 

Metropolitan  Railway's  Whitechapel  and  Mile-End 
stations,  you  will  see  why  it  is  the  rendezvous  of 
misery.  Westward  to  Aldgate,  southward  by  the 
docks  to  the  Thames,  north  and  east  just  as  far  as 
you  like — all  round  it  spreads  a  wilderness  of  undis- 
tinguished streets.  Houses  line  the  streets  like  peas 
in  a  pod;  men  and  women  and  children  swarm  and 
fester  in  them  like  maggots  in  a  pea.  There  are  no 
ladies  and  gentlemen :  everybody  is  poor,  and  must 
work  or  starve.  The  fog  and  the  dirt  and  the  strain- 
ing work  breed  diseases  most  abundantly  just  in  the 
people  who  are  helpless  against  them.  Then,  when 
they  must  mend  or  starve,  they  come  to  the  London 
Hospital. 

The  surgeon  strode  in — an  apparition  of  great 
size  and  strength,  strained  to  its  extreme,  of  a  calm 
keen  face,  and  hands  both  fine  and  powerful.  In 
less  than  one  minute  he  was  in  his  place,  the 
students  were  in  theirs,  and  among  the  patients 
hope  began  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  fear.  From 
his  desk  the  surgeon  took  up  one  of  many  forms 
with  wTiting  upon  it.  He  read  out  a  name  from  the 
top ;  a  dumpy  man  stepped  into  the  semicircle  and 
sat  down.  Instead  of  looking  at  him  the  surgeon 
began  to  read  the  ^listory  and  symptoms  of  his  case 
from  the  paper. 

Seconds  are  precious  in  the  London  Hospital, 
and  you  very  soon  saw  that  none  is  wasted.    Yet  it 
occurred  to  the  mind  that  the  surgeon  could  have  » 
come  to  the  point  quicker  by  looking  at  the  man 
himself.    But  that  would  be  attending  to  onlv  one- 


TWO    HOSPITALS  309 

half  the  hospital's  work.  Out-patients  must  be  re- 
lieved ;  but  also  students  must  be  taught.  You  in 
Mayfair,  or  Hampstead,  or  Clapham,  may  imagine 
that  the  London  Hospital  is  nothing  to  you.  You 
are  callous  to  a  great  deal  of  misery,  if  you  do,  and 
very  short-sighted  in  supposing  that  half  your  fel- 
low-citizens can  putrefy  without  rotting  the  whole ; 
also,  in  point  of  fact,  you  are  very  wrong.  When 
you  are  ill,  where  does  your  doctor  come  from  ?  He 
reads  his  books  at  Cambridge,  maybe ;  but  where 
did  he  see  a  scalpel?  Where  do  they  make  doctors? 
Where  but  in  the  place  which  gives  most  chance  of 
learning  diseases?  You  may  pay  a  couple  of 
guineas  in  Harley  Street  whenever  you  have  a  head- 
ache ;  but  none  the  less  you,  and  all  of  us,  have  a 
direct  debt  to  pay  to  the  hospitals  which  provide 
healers  for  rich  as  well  as  poor. 

Each  patient,  therefore,  had  been  tackled  by  a 
student,  and  he  had  written  down  his  diagnosis. 
The  surgeon  read  it  off,  and  then,  ruling  out  irrele- 
vancies,  recapitulated  the  four  or  five  important 
factors.  "Whose  case  ?"  "Mine,"  said  a  boy  in  blue 
serge.  "What's  your  diagnosis?"  The  boy  an- 
swered something  I  did  not  understand.  The  sur- 
geon agreed,  but  distinguished.  Which  breed  of 
the  particular  disease  was  it?  and  why?  The  gen- 
tleman in  question  was  suffering  from  a  kind  of 
eruption  on  the  chin ;  and  I  gathered  that  the  stu- 
dent rather  plunged  in  his  reply,  alleging  that  the 
patient  caught  it  from  his  barber's  razor.  "How 
do  you  know  that?"  inquired  the  remorseless  man  of 


310  THINGS   SEEN 

science.  There  was  not  very  much  doubt  in  his 
own  mind  that  the  student  was  right ;  but  moral 
certainty  does  not  do  for  surgical  education.  Hairs 
were  phicked  out  of  tlie  offending  skin  and  dipped 
in  liquor  potass  out  of  a  bottle,  and  put  into  the 
microscope.  Meanwhile  the  next  case  was  called. 
i  The  next  case  was  a  man  with  a  cyst  behind  his 
ear :  being  sent  away  to  have  it  cut  out,  he  ex- 
pressed a  preference  for  chloroform  over  laughing- 
gas,  presumably  as  being  the  more  aristocratic 
anaesthetic  of  the  two ;  but  laughing-gas  was  what 
he  got.  The  next  was  a  docker,  who  had  fallen  on 
to  his  knee;  the  next  a  leg  which  required  massage. 
He  ought  to  have  got  it  twice  a  day,  but  the  hos- 
pital can't  afiford  it,  and  of  course  he  couldn't  afford 
it  himself.  Then  a  gentleman  who  had  got  it  into 
his  head  that  he  mustn't  eat  vegetables,  and  had 
consequently  come  out  purple  over  the  skin.  Then 
a  gentleman  who,  being  told  to  lead  a  horse,  had 
preferred  to  ride  it :  he  had  never  been  across  a 
horse  before,  and  after  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  a 
cropper  on  the  head,  was  surprised  that  he  w^ent 
very  stiff.  Then  a  foreman  from  a  chemical  factory  : 
he  had  been  working  with  mercury,  and  his  teeth 
were  on  the  point  of  falling  out  of  his  jaw. 

Then  another,  and  another,  and  another — one 
done,  next  come  on :  a  relentless  tale  of  ignorance 
and  labour  and  drink  and  vice.  You  saw  the  half- 
innocent  sins  of  twenty  years  ago  come  grinning  up 
with  their  punishment ;  you  saw  perky-faced  chil- 
dren wincing:  for  the  half-remembered  debauches 


TWO    HOSPITALS  31I 

of  their  fathers.  It  was  humiliating  to  manhood, 
and  yet  it  was  heroic.  For  in  each  distress  human 
knowledge  and  skill  fought  on  undiscouraged 
against  human  folly  and  weakness.  The  piercing 
reek  of  iodoform,  the  imflinching  scalpel,  the  reveal- 
ing microscope,  the  sterilised  tube  to  be  examined 
for  bacteria,  the  ghostly  Rontgen  photograph — in 
one  afternoon  you  could  see  every  weapon  plied  in- 
cessantly in  the  heroic  unequal  combat. 

For  the  combat  is  terribly  unequal.  Fighting 
disease  in  the  London  Hospital  is  like  fighting  a 
big  bully  in  a  strait-waistcoat.  You  saw  it  plainly 
when  the  first  batch  of  patients  had  been  despatched 
and  the  second  string  came  in.  They  were  told 
ofif  one  apiece  to  a  student,  as  before,  and  every- 
thing had  to  be  done  in  the  one  narrow  half-lit 
room.  In  a  minute  it  was  a  jungle  of  human  bodies 
— half-naked  men,  fathers  stripping  misshapen  chil- 
dren, students  dodging  under  swollen  arms  and 
stepping  over  varicose  veins  to  get  at  the  case  they 
could  hardly  touch  for  the  crowd  and  hardly  see  for 
the  dusk. 

Everything  inside  makes  against  good  w'ork,  as 
everything  outside  strives  to  stifle  good  results  ;  yet 
the  good  work  goes  on  undismayed.  Face  after 
face  that  came  in  timid  and  heavy  went  out  light. 
Out  of  its  cramped  poverty  the  hospital  gave  freely 
and  kept  back  nothing.  "I  haven't  come  provided," 
said  a  lame  girl  who  was  ordered  to  bed.  "You 
don't  need  to  be  provided — we  provide,"  was  the 
superb  reply. 

The  evening  wound  up  with  a  couple  of  opera- 


312  THINGS   SEEN 

tions.  Faithful  accounts  of  operations  do  not  suit 
all  palates,  so  we  will  glide  over  these  lightly.  A 
great  surgeon  operating  is  like  a  great  general  fight- 
ing an  action.  Staff  and  guns,  infantry  and  cavalry 
— chloroformist  and  dressers  and  nurses — each  unit 
in  its  place,  knowing  its  own  work  and  doing  it  to 
the  second,  all  working  swiftly  and  smoothly  to- 
gether to  the  one  end,  and  the  one  mind  controlling 
every  movement.  The  inanimate-animate  body  on 
the  wheeled  table,  the  reek  of  the  antiseptics,  the 
clink  of  the  instruments,  snatched  up  or  replaced, 
in  the  disinfectant  bath,  the  brief  words  of  com- 
mand, the  hush,  the  hands  that  fly  to  and  fro,  over 
and  under,  conveying  the  next  thing  needed,  the 
firm,  accurate  hand  that  carves  and  saws,  then  cov- 
ers up  and  heals, — these  are  the  master-marvels  of 
all  the  hospital's  beneficence.  A  child's  knee  fresh 
opened,  freed  from  diseased  bone,  and  then  fastened 
together  again  in  its  right  shape,  for  all  the  world 
like  mending  a  wooden  doll. 

If  the  disease  is  a  scalding  shame  to  our  human 
nature,  the  hand  and  eye  and  brain  that  heal  are  a 
halo  of  glory. 

II. 

IN    THE    THEATRE.^ 

The  theatre  was  full  of  the  piercing  smell  of 
iodoform.  About  its  lowest  tiers  lounged  a  dozen 
students. 

^  Daily  Mail,  April  9,  i899- 


TWO    HOSPITALS  313 

On  the  floor  stood  a  doctor,  grey-bearded,  mo- 
tionless, hands-  thrust  into  his  overcoat  pockets. 
Everybody  else  on  the  floor  was  all  strained  atten- 
tion and  swift  movement — the  two  elder  students 
behind  the  tables  with  bright  steel  instruments  in 
small  tanks  of  water-made  antiseptics ;  the  nurse 
at  the  table  with  the  sponges  and  basins  of  water — 
some  clear,  some  pink,  some  scarlet ;  the  proba- 
tioner at  the  sink  and  tap  ;  the  nursing  sisters  hand- 
ing things  to  the  surgeons  ;  the  two  surgeons  them- 
selves, shirt-sleeved,  arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  cov- 
ered up  in  big  white  aprons. 

Between  their  swift  movements  you  could  see 
lying  on  the  slab  in  the  centre  a  human  body.  Man 
or  woman  you  could  not  say,  for  over  the  whole 
face  was  a  large  leather  cap,  and  growing  out  of  it 
a  brown  bladder  like  an  empty  football ;  the  chloro- 
formist  held  it  tight  over  mouth  and  nose.  Sud- 
denly the  bald-headed  surgeon,  stepping  aside,  lets 
in  a  glimpse  of  an  amputated  arm. 

There  hung  from  it  a  bunch  of  what  looked  like 
little  steel  skewers.  These  were  the  clips  with  which 
they  catch  up  and  close  the  ends  of  the  severed 
vessels.  The  arm  was  ofif  above  the  elbow,  and  the 
second  half  of  the  operation  was  in  rapid,  almost 
stealthy,  progress. 

You  could  hardly  follow  the  surgeon's  hand  as 
he  took  a  bit  of  salmon-gut  from  the  watching 
attendant ;  before  you  saw  it  was  whipped  round 
an  artery  and  had  tied  it  up.  The  chp  was  off  and 
passed  back  to  the  hand  waiting  to  receive  it.    One 


314  THINGS   SEEN 

after  another  the  cHps  came  back  into  their  tank. 
Then  the  surgeon's  brisk  word  of  command  broke 
the  dead  silence :  "Hot  lotion,"  he  said,  without 
looking  up.  It  was  there,  ready,  in  the  slight  sis- 
ter's hand ;  in  a  second,  as  by  jugglery,  it  was  in 
the  surgeon's,  and  being  passed  over  the  wound. 
Then  the  flaps  of  skin  were  drawn. 

"Iodoform" — and  by  another  hardly  perceptiljlc 
piece  of  legerdemain  a  pepper-castor  was  shaking 
yellow  powder  on  the  wound, 

"Bandages" — and  they  had  sprung  up  in  the 
sister's  hand,  and  in  a  second  the  light-coloured 
antiseptic  dressings  were  being  strapped  on  hastily, 
firmly,  with  exact  precision.  Now  you  saw  the 
leather  cap  was  off  the  face :  it  was  a  young  beard- 
less man,  very  pale,  rolling  his  head  over  on  the 
pillow,  with  a  twitter  of  returning  life,  very  ill  from 
the  ether. 

But  before  he  had  time  to  realise  what  had  hap- 
pened the  maimed  arm  was  strapped  to  his  side ; 
a  door  had  opened  noiselessly,  and  a  bed  had  trun- 
dled in;  tlie  bundle  of  blankets  was  lifted  swiftly 
but  gently — by  two  attendants  catching  him  up  on 
the  same  side,  so  as  not  to  jar  the  shattered  body 
■ — back  on  to  its  bed.  In  an  instant  the  bed  was 
away  and  the  door  was  shut.  And,  looking  round, 
you  saw  that  all  the  paraphernalia,  the  tallies  and 
instruments,  sponges  and  basins,  had  disappeared 
too. 

It  was  like  a  dream  of  magic,  a  fairy-tale  of  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  to  come  in  from  the 


TWO    HOSPITALS  315 

everyday  bustle  of  London  and  find  such  wonders 
being  wrought  in  the  midst  of  it.  The  work  was  so 
silent,  so  quick,  so  self-possessed ;  it  seemed  to 
move  by  itself  smoothly,  infallibly,  as  if  those  en- 
gaged in  it  had  ceased  to  be  separate  men  and 
women.  No  hitch,  no  hesitation,  no  pause;  every- 
thing in  its  exact  place,  everything  at  its  exact 
time. 

Almost  before  you  have  had  time  to  wonder, 
another  bed  has  come  in  by  another  door.  The 
patient  on  it  is  a  woman,  white-haired,  seventy 
years  old.  But  her  face  is  placid  and  quite  unafraid 
as  she  is  lifted  on  to  the  operating-table;  indeed, 
there  is  nothing  visible  to  frighten.  But  as  she  is 
laid  down  the  noiseless  miracle  begins  again.  Sud- 
denly the  instruments  and  attendants  are  all  in  their 
places  again.  The  patient  is  breathing  in  anodyne 
insensibility  from  the  cup  and  bladder.  The  sur- 
geon, tall,  grey,  bushy-browed,  his  long  hands  a 
model  of  delicacy  linked  with  strength,  is  explain- 
ing the  case  to  the  students :  it  is  cancer,  and  he 
has  authority  to  cut  it  away.  It  is  part  of  the  mira- 
cle— only  by  now  you  have  ceased  to  be  surprised 
— that  he  has  finished  his  explanation  exactly  at 
the  moment  the  patient  is  ready  for  him.  He  steps 
up  to  the  body,  gives  a  keen  glance  at  the  stain  on 
the  arm,  touches  it.  "Scalpel,"  he  says,  without 
looking  up,  and  the  keen  blade  is  instantly  in  his 
hand. 

His  hand  is  travelling  over  the  arm — but  surely 
not  cutting?    The  flesh  seems  to  divide  before  it, 


3l6  THINGS    SEEN 

so  exquisitely  edged  is  the  knife,  so  firm  and  true 
the  fingers  and  wrist.  Little  streams  suddenly  well 
up  and  trickle  down  the  arm.  "Sponge,"  and  a 
sponge  has  appeared  and  swept  them  away.  "Clip," 
and  a  clip  has  glided  from  its  tank,  and  has  stopped 
the  cut  vein.  Gradually — it  is  only  seconds,  but 
they  are  packed  with  the  interest  of  hours — there 
grows  a  deep  red  gash  behind  the  ever-moving 
scalpel.  It  moves  a  shade  more  slowly  now ;  it  is 
picking  its  way  among  arteries,  and  a  hair's-breadtli 
to  left  or  right  may  mean  death.  No  sound  but  the 
sharp  orders  and  the  perpetual  gush  of  water  from 
the  tap  where  the  probationer  is  emptying  the  red- 
dened water  and  refilling  the  bowl  for  the  clean 
sponges.  There  remains  the  crimson  chasm  fringed 
with  clips.  Now  comes  what  we  have  seen  before : 
the  clips  come  ofY  one  by  one  as  the  blood-vessels 
are  tied  up ;  the  lotion  washes  all  clean ;  the  gash, 
w-hich  looked  as  if  half  the  arm  had  been  cut  out, 
closes  up  to  a  natural  form  and  size.  And  as  that 
dimly  waking  woman  is  whisked  away,  the  surgeon, 
calling  for  a  basin,  and  passing  it  round,  resumes  his 
remarks  on  cancer. 

The  next  case  is  cancer  too,  only  it  is  cancer  in 
the  mouth  and  jaw.  Cheek  and  jaw  are  to  be  cut 
away :  to  keep  the  man  alive  yet  insensible  the 
while,  he  must  have  chloroformed  air  pumped  into 
his  lungs.  The  chloroformist  has  got  a  long  tube 
with  a  bladder  at  the  end.  The  sponges  in  this  case 
are  small,  and  held  on  long  clips.  He  is  an  obscene- 
looking  old  man,  his  face  dyed  with  drink,  and 


TWO    HOSPITALS  317 

two  front  teeth  gone.  As  he  is  strapped  down,  the 
sweet  sticky  smell  of  chloroform  begins  to  conquer 
the  iodoform ;  it  is  being  sprinkled  on  to  the  cloth 
over  his  face.  As  it  gets  hold  of  him  he  starts  mut- 
tering in  a  thick  drunken  tone,  then  struggles,  and 
tries  to  sit  up,  while  the  mutter  swells  into  a  half- 
articulate  curse.  But  now  he  is  ready,  and  "Scal- 
pel," calls  the  surgeon.  He  bends  over,  and  you 
see  the  blade  gleam.  Again  it  is  not  like  cutting. 
The  man  is  sobbing  and  moaning  now',  his  cries 
rising  and  falling  as  if  with  the  violence  of  the 
pain,  though  he  cannot  really  feel  anything. 

As  the  moan  rises  louder  to  a  muffled  yell,  the 
surgeon  pauses  to  let  the  chloroformed  cloth  lie 
over  the  mouth  for  a  moment ;  then  comes  the  time 
to  cut  the  bone.  The  long  keen  saw  is  so  fine  that 
but  for  the  grinding  of  the  bone  you  might  have 
thought  it  a  simple  steel  rod. 

Everybody  is  working  now  for  the  man's  life ;  the 
lithe  swiftness  of  movement  is  almost  dazzling. 
Left  hands  and  right  hands  seem  each  to  be  think- 
ing for  themselves ;  the  sponges  are  handed  with 
breathless  haste:  the  sister  slips  them  in,  now  over 
a  shoulder,  now  under  an  arm,  to  the  ready  hand 
tliat  must  not  wait  half  a  second;  surgeon,  assist- 
ant, and  chloroformist,  whoever  has  a  hand  to 
spare,  nips  up  the  sponge  and  plunges  it  down  the 
subject's  throat.  Then  the  shining  shears  plunge  in 
too  and  grip  the  bone ;  the  veins  stand  out  on  the 
surgeon's  hands  as  he  forces  the  sharp  blades  to- 


3l8  THINGS   SEEN 

gethcr  with  every  ounce  of  his  strength.  Crack — 
from  somewhere  inside. 

Then  another  grip,  another  wrench,  another 
crack ;  "Basin"  —  and  the  lump  of  bone  comes 
away.  It  is  over  now ;  the  chps  sticking  up  out 
of  the  throat  disappear  one  by  one.  Then  the  deft 
healing  hand  closes  the  wound,  and  the  face  is  a 
face  again. 

You  go  out  dazed — quite  lost  in  wonder  and 
admiration.  You  did  not  expect  to  see  your  fel- 
lows cut  up  alive  with  excitement  and  enthusiasm. 
Yet  enthusiasm  it  is.  If  what  you  have  seen  did  no 
possible  good  to  anybody,  it  would  still  be  un- 
speakably noble  as  the  highest  exercise  of  human 
science  and  handicraft.  Being  also  the  life-saving 
it  is,  how  can  any  adjective  say  enough  to  praise  it? 
You  can  only  repeat,  "A  miracle,  a  miracle,"  and 
wonder  whether  it  looks  more  diabolical  or  angelic 
—  diabolical  in  its  superhuman  accomplishment, 
angelic  in  its  superhuman  beneficence. 


APPENDIX 


FROM  THE  'LADYSMITH  LYRE.' 

EDITORIAL   NOTE. 

The  following  extracts  from  the  "Ladysmith  Lyre,"  that 
pathetic  trophy  of  indomitable  cheerfulness,  have  been 
included  by  the  desire  of  many  friends.  The  interest 
of  them  is  personal,  since  they  are  of  the  last  words  which 
George  Steevens  wrote,  and  one  of  character,  the  circum- 
stances of  their  writing  considered,  and  it  is  thought  that 
for  such  a  reason,  over  and  above  their  intrinsic  merit, 
their  inclusion  will  be  welcomed. 


THE  WAR  OF  KINGS. 

Mahabir  Thapa  is  an  expert  in  war.  From  his 
infancy  he  has  engaged  in  the  destruction  of  man- 
kind. At  his  mother's  breast  he  strangled  his  twin 
brother.  Before  he  tramped  down  to  Gorakhpur 
to  enhst  as  a  "rifleman"  of  the  Kampani  Bahadur 
he  had  survived  four  divorce  cases ;  and  every  one 
knows  a  Gurkha  co-respondent  must  be  well  versed 
in  war  thus  to  clear  his  character.  I  first  saw 
Mahabir  in  the  Swat  Valley.  He  was  a  little  scrap 
319 


320  APPENDIX 

of  a  Havildar  in  the  IV.  Gurkhas,  and  was  standing 
outside  his  colonel's  tent  picking  the  beard  hairs 
out  of  a  ghastly  trophy  in  heads.  On  the  previous 
evening  the  colonel  had  offered  three  rupees  to  the 
man  who  would  efifectually  silence  a  "sniper"  who 
had  pitched  Martini  bullets  into  the  camp  with  per- 
sistent monotony.  Mahabir  had  earned  the  three 
rupees,  and  had  brought  in  the  Pathan's  head  as  a 
proof  of  good  faith.  The  next  time  that  he  tumbled 
across  my  path,  I  found  him  a  smartly  turned  out 
Jemadar  attached  to  the  Gurkha  scouts.  In  this 
service  he  had  ample  opportunity  of  improving  his 
knowledge  of  war.  Therefore,  when  to  my  surprise 
I  found  him  in  Ladysmith,  masquerading  as  a 
dooley-bearer,  I  appealed  to  him  for  an  expert 
■  opinion. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Sirdar?" 

"Sahib,  I  have  seen  many  wars,  but  this  is  before 
all  wars — this  is  the  war  of  kings.  Cannon  on  this 
side,  cannon  on  that  side,  was  there  ever  such  a 
war?     Surely  this  is  Badshai  ke  larai." 

"Come  along.  Sirdar,  come  to  my  room  and  we 
will  talk  it  all  over." 

I  took  him  to  my  quarters  and  placed  a  Mauser 
carbine  and  a  brandy  in  his  hands. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this,  Sirdar?"  He 
turned  the  weapon  over  half-a-dozen  times,  tried 
the  breech  action,  pressed  down  the  magazine 
spring,  and  then  threw  the  rifle  on  the  bed.  "Sahib, 
it  is  good,  but  the  war  is  bad.  This  war  is  like  a 
shikar  party  given  by  Jung  Bahadur,  a  State  shikar 


APPENDIX  321 

party.  Here  are  elephants,  armies  of  beaters,  tents, 
food  in  plenty,  music,  fireworks,  and  nautches;  but 
no  kills,  except  such  game  as  the  keepers  had  or- 
ders to  slay  overnight  and  had  strewn  in  the  path 
of  the  elephants,  that  the  guests  might  be  pleased. 
Even  as  this  is  this  war.  It  is  the  war  of  kings,  not 
of  men.  When  men  go  forth  to  war,  or  sport,  they 
gird  up  their  loins,  pack  food  on  their  backs,  and 
make  no  noise.    The  less  noise  the  more  war." 

"Then  do  you  approve  of  this  show  ?" 

"Sahib,  it  is  magnificent,  a  great  game ;  men 
watch  for  the  smoke  of  the  guns,  then  run  into 
holes  and  laugh  and  clap  their  hands.  There  they 
sit  in  safety,  counting  the  loss  and  gain  with  a 
thousand  rupees  in  the  mouth  of  each  gun.  Why 
spend  this  money  and  do  no  good?  If  we  run  to 
holes,  will  not  the  diishiiian  do  likewise,  will  he  not 
laugh  and  also  clap  his  hands?  For  one  hundred 
rupees  will  a  Gurkha  serve  the  Sirkar  for  a  year. 
If  you  had  the  services  of  one  Gurkha  for  one  year 
for  every  round  that  you  have  fired  during  the  last 
month,  you  would  now  stand  possessed  of  every 
gun  in  the  world.  With  Lucas  Sahib,  and  Bruce 
Sahib,  and  fifty  men  from  my  pultan,  the  General 
Sahib  would  in  one  week  have  in  his  verandah  such 
a  pile  of  breechblocks  that  the  doors  would  not 
open,  and  we  should  have  painted  them  all  red  to 
prevent  rust." 

"But  this  is  a  white  man's  war." 

Mahabir  Thapa  put  down  his  glass  slowly.  His 
eyes  clearly  said,  "Thank  God  for  that!"    but  his 


322  APPENDIX 

answer  was,  "I  cannot  understand ;  it  is  the  war  of 
kings,  I  am  but  a  man." 

How  could  he  understand?  What  did  he  know 
of  Stafif  College  strategy  and  modern  tactics  ?  Mili- 
tary history,  depression  range-finders,  telescopic 
sights,  and  chess-board  calculations  meant  nothing 
to  the  man  who,  given  half  a  company  of  little 
heathens  in  grass  shoes,  was  prepared  to  dismantle 
the  whole  of  the  artillery  of  the  South  African 
RepubHcs.' 
27th  November  1899. 


AN   INTERCEPTED   LETTER. 

The  following  letter  was  discovered  the  other 
day  amongst  the  bags  which  were  sent  back  to  us, 
not  having  succeeded  in  getting  through  the  Boer 
lines : — 

To   Mr.   Smith,  Esq.,   Collector  Sahib,  Mosuffer- 
nugger,  N.W.P.,  India. 

Nov.  10,  1899. 

Most  Honoured  Sir, — Your  humble  servant  begs 
to  inquire  after  your  egregious  and  illustrious 
health.  And  as  above  poor  petitioner  wishes  to 
bring  this  my  humble  petition  for  kind  considera- 
tion of  above.  Since  after  subsequent  many  days 
arrival  in  this  place  called  Lady  Smith,  undersigned 
being  loyal  subject  but  of  timid  nature,  has  suffered 
cannon-balls,  and  many  long  toms  for  'these  many 


APPENDIX  323 

days,  and   since   few  days  have  suffered  sickness 
with  pains  and  spasms. 

Sir,  I  am  not  miHtary  soldier,  and  am  in  constant 
terror  of  balls  as  above.  Undersigned  would  there- 
fore pray  that  your  most  noble  opulence  would 
bring  kind  consideration  to  bear,  and  bring  relief 
on  your  honour's  most  humble  and  beseeching 
petitioner,  as  since  many  days  I  am  hiding  in  hole, 
and  dare  not  make  exit  from  same.  Please  to  give 
order  that  I  return  to  your  honour's  service  with- 
out delay,  for  which  act  of  kindness  grovelling 
petitioner  will  ever  pray,  as  in  duty  bound,  for  your 
honour's  long  life  and  prosperity. — Ever  your  most 
humble  and  obedient  servant, 

Sheo  Narain  Das,  Baboo. 
30th  November  1899. 


THE    RELIEF    OF    LADYSMITH. 

Reprinted  from  the    'Times'    of  December  5th,  2099. 
A    WONDERFUL    DISCOVERY. 

The  eminent  German  archaeologist,  Dr.  Poomp- 
schiffer,  has  recently  contributed  to  science  the  most 
interesting  discovery  of  the  century.  It  will  be  re- 
membered that  the  learned  professor  started  in  the 
spring  on  a  tour  of  exploration  among  the  buried 
cities  of  Natal.  When  last  heard  of,  in  October, 
he  had  excavated  the  remains  of  Alaritzburg  and 
Estcourt,   and  was   cutting  his   way  through  the 


324  APPENDIX 

dense  primeval  forests  on  the  banks  of  the  Tugela. 
By  cable  yesterday  came  intelligence  of  even  more 
sensational  finds.  Briefly,  Dr.  Poompschiffer  has 
rediscovered  the  forgotten  town  of  Ladysmith. 
Crossing  the  Tugela,  the  intrepid  explore'r  pushed 
northward.  The  dense  bush  restricted  his  progress 
to  three  miles  a  day.  On  the  third  day  Poomp- 
schifTer  noticed  strange  booming  sounds  frequently 
repeated ;  none  of  his  party  could  guess  what  they 
were,  and  curiosity  ran  high.  On  the  sixth  day 
the  mystery  was  explained.  The  party  came  suddenly 
upon  a  group  of  what  were  at  first  taken  for  a 
species  of  extinct  reptile,  but  which  the  profound 
learning  of  Poompschiffer  enabled  him  to  recog- 
nise as 

THE  LAST  SURVIVALS  OF  THE  PREHISTORIC 
BOERS. 

Their  appearance  was  almost  terrifying.  They 
were  all  extremely  old.  Their  wdiite  beards  had 
grown  till  they  trailed  beneath  their  feet,  and  it  was 
the  custom  of  the  field-cornets  to  knee-halter  each 
man  at  night  with  his  own  beard  to  prevent  him 
from  running  away.  Their  clothes  had  fallen  tO' 
pieces  with  age,  but  a  thick  and  impenetrable  coat- 
ing of  dust  and  melinite  kept  them  warm.  Their 
occupation  was  as  quaint  as  their  appearance. 
They  were  firing  obsolete  machines,  conjectured  to 
be  the  cannon  of  the  ancients,  in  the  direction  of  a 
heap  of  cactus-grown  ruins.  That  heap  of  ruins 
was  the  fabled  fortress  of  Ladysmith. 


APPENDIX 


325 


Students  of  history  will  remember  the  Boer  war 
of  1899,  from  which  public  attention  was  distracted 
by  the  great  War  Office  strike.  The  learned  will 
also  remember  at  a  later  period,  after  the  closing 
of  that  ofBce,  the  controversy  in  our  columns  on 
the  question  whether  Ladysmith  existed  or  not, 
which  the  general  voice  of  experts  finally  decided 
in  the  negative.  It  is  now  proved  that  so-called 
savants  of  that  rude  age  were  mistaken.  Not  only 
did  Ladysmith  exist,  not  only  was  it  besieged,  but 
up  to  the  day  before  yesterday 

THE     SIEGE     OF      LADYSMITH     WAS     STILL 
GOING   ON. 

The  site  of  the  town  at  first  appeared  uninhabited. 
But  when  Poompschifi'cr  commenced  excavating 
he  came,  to  his  amazement,  upon  signs  of  old  work- 
ings at  a  depth  of  only  a  few  feet  below  the  surface. 
For  an  instant,  he  tells  us,  he  thought  some  other 
antiquarian  had  been  before  him.  Next  moment 
some  creature  blundered  along  the  tunnel  into  his 
very  arms.  It  was  secured  and  brought  into  the 
light.    It  was  the  last  inhabitant  of  Ladysmith. 

It  was  apparently  one  of  the  children  born  since 
the  beginning  of  the  siege,  and  was  about  a  hun- 
dred years  old.  From  living  jn  underground  holes 
it  was  bent  double,  and  quite  blind.  It  appeared 
tmable  to  speak,  only  repeating  constantly,  in  a 
crooning  voice,  the  syllables,  "Weeskee,  weeskee," 
which  Poompschififer  was  unable  to  translate.  The 
professor  was  anxious  to  secure  this  unique  speci- 


326  APPENDIX 

men  for  the  Kaiser  William  Museum  of  Antiquities, 
at  Berlin.  But  the  moment  it  was  removed  from 
Ladysmith  it  began  to  pine  away.  Having  never 
known  any  state  of  life  but  bombardment,  it  was 
terrified  by  the  absence  of  artillery-fire.  Time  after 
time  it  attempted  to  escape  to  its  native  shells. 
Poompschififer  endeavoured  to  maintain  life  by  arti- 
ficial bombardment,  letting  off  crackers  in  its  ear, 
and  pelting  it  with  large  stones.  But  all  was  in 
vain :  the  extraordinary  creature  was  not  deceived, 
and  in  a  few  hours,  with  a  last  despairing  wail  of 
"Weeskee,"  it  expired  through  sheer  terror  at  the 
safety  of  its  surroundings. 
5th  December  1899. 


THE   END. 


i+7  3 

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